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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28023732">Redshift (Blueshift)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobiyos/pseuds/tobiyos'>tobiyos</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Persona 5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Metaverse (Persona 5), Blood and Injury, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Polyamory, Roller Derby, Slow Burn, Updating tags as we go</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:22:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>33,404</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28023732</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobiyos/pseuds/tobiyos</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mishima kind of wants to keep scrolling, keep moving, but for some reason he just… can’t. Maybe it’s all of the colors, or the sharp, dangerous feel to it, but he takes a second to glance over the words. There’s something about seeking athletes, about needing an extra pair of strong legs, something about good company and bloody knuckles.</p><p>And something about roller derby.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kurusu Akira/Mishima Yuuki, Kurusu Akira/Mishima Yuuki/Sakamoto Ryuji, Kurusu Akira/Sakamoto Ryuji, Mishima Yuuki/Sakamoto Ryuji, Niijima Makoto/Okumura Haru</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Uh oh Bunny is back on their sports bullshit.</p><p>Hi, hello, I love sports AUs and my desire to write one (1) scene turned into this monster of a fic I'm determined to get finished. I'm probably going to update the tags and rating as we go (Yes, this will eventually be an explicit fic) but I'm so excited to get this idea into the air even though it's for a major rarepair it's fine it's chill this is my little niche and I'm gonna have fun with it.</p><p>Okay last minute things also I'm still writing this (yikes!) but it'll probably be... a few chapters. At least four! Yay! But I'll say I'll try to get a chapter up at least every... two weeks? That sounds doable. Come on this journey with me traveler. I'm so excited you're here</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>To be honest, Mishima thought college was going to be fun. And y’know, it’s not like he has any real <em>reference</em> for that, save for a handful of anime and a couple of shitty foreign movies, but he at least thought he’d be leaving behind… you know. The <em>old</em> Mishima. Lonely Friday nights and friendless lunches, empty notification tray on his phone and questions from his parents about why he’s always holed up in his room.</p><p><em>Well</em>, he thinks, on a lonely Friday night, friendlessly staring at the empty notification tray of his phone, <em>at least no one is asking why I’m holed up in my room now.</em></p><p>It’s certainly not for lack of <em>trying</em>—he’d spent his first week at school trying to decide which clubs to join, which groups seemed the most fun for a guy barely used to talking to his doctor on the phone. But suddenly he’d blinked, and everyone in the clubs he’d thought of joining were already close enough to have known each other for <em>years</em>, and the few people he’d made connections with in his classes were talking about parties with people he hadn’t even known went to his school. The loop had cast him out not even a second after it had been formed.</p><p>He sighs, and opens Twitter, hoping maybe seeing other people’s friendly interactions with each other will give him a <em>better</em> push to put himself out there. Instead, he’s just kind of filled with an empty feeling, watching names go by as he scrolls, scrolls, scrolls.</p><p>Oh, there’s the girl from his math class who’d asked him for notes once. She’d also looked at him like a crazy person when he’d said hi to her walking to lunch the next day, so that’s a no on tonight’s interaction as well.</p><p>He’s close to giving up, getting ready to just turn off his phone and roll into a sad Mishima burrito in his blankets for the night, when his eyes catch on something bright red that give him pause, an image posted from the student community page he’d followed that bears no accompanying text.</p><p>The graphic of the photo is simple, a bright red and black card under a sharp mask in a top hat on a pair of roller skates. It would look silly if it wasn’t so sharp, strikingly vibrant. It makes Mishima feel like he’s looking at an invitation he was never really meant to see, but now that he’s caught it, it’s hard to turn away. The second image beside it is full of chopped up letters like a TV ransom note, black white and grey on top of the original colors. It holds a short message, and a phone number.</p><p>Mishima kind of wants to keep scrolling, keep moving, but for some reason he just… can’t. Maybe it’s all of the colors, or the sharp, dangerous feel to it, but he takes a second to glance over the words. There’s something about seeking athletes, about needing an extra pair of strong legs, something about good company and bloody knuckles.</p><p>And something about roller derby.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Akira Kurusu has a lot of shit under his belt.</p><p>His boyfriend likes to call him a busybody, and his team likes to call him a workaholic, but Ryuji and the rest of the theives just don’t <em>get</em> it. He’s got to keep moving, keep going, keep his eyes up and his heart beating, because sitting still is out of the question when he’s got a world to run at his fingertips.</p><p>He’s on his university’s student council, with a part time job at a roller rink, a full-time boyfriend, and an underground derby team to take care of.</p><p>Akira is officially in his second year of university, but his degree doesn’t mean shit outside of the half rundown rink where he gets enough money to throw at a ridiculous amount of bandages, the battered skates he’s painted over year after year after year. They’re champions, his team, as much as you can be when you can only really cycle through the members of one tiny league at a time.</p><p>What they’re not expecting is Ann going down hard and fast a month before championship matches start, and what they’re expecting even less is how she can’t get up afterwards.</p><p>“I’m fine!” she insists, but she tries to put a hand down to help herself stand, and well. It was inevitable that someone manages to get an injury that persists past a slap to the side of the head and a half hour of ice pack torture.</p><p>“What do we do?” Makoto asks, glancing at Akira.</p><p>He thinks, looks at Ryuji, at Haru, and then shrugs. “Take ‘em down with four.”</p><p>The other team is fast, full of hard hitters, and he’s not expecting to win, not with Ann benched. The Shadows pull a fast one and come out on top, and nobody has room to be devastated, because they’re all piling into Makoto’s van to cart Ann off to the hospital, not for the first time and certainly not for the last.</p><p>“What do we do?” Makoto asks again, sitting quietly at Akira’s side at the hospital.</p><p>For that one, he doesn’t really have an answer.</p><p>They sit down as a team and talk, work through their options and their shortcomings, comforting Ann when she gets frustrated because they never <em>ever</em> want her to think this was in any way her fault.</p><p>“Falls happen,” Ryuji says gently, an arm around her shoulders as she’s pulled into a hug. “Just cause you ain’t all there doesn’t mean you’re not still a thief.”</p><p>Options, Makoto brings up again, and Haru is surprisingly the first to suggest it.</p><p>“We’ve been stuck for a while, right?” she says. “We need something new, something explosive. Why don’t we put out an invitation?”</p><p>“What, like a calling card?” Ryuji says. “Like, ‘<em>come if you dare’</em> or something.”</p><p>“Probably not that insidious, no,” Makoto sighs. “But maybe Haru is right. I can ask the student council to post it on some of the social media.”</p><p>“No need,” Futaba says, legs propped up on a table Akira was going to have to wipe down anyway. “We’re not an official organization, so that probably won’t get approved. I can post it for them, though.”</p><p>“Try it,” Akira says with a nod. “We need all the help we can get.”</p><p>Ryuji and Yusuke draft up the card, Futaba posts it to the school’s twitter for an hour, and then they wait.</p><p><em>Is this The Theives?</em> comes in on Akira’s phone, and he holds it up for Ryuji with a smile.</p><p>
  <em>Sure is. You skate?</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The little rink on the edge of town is called <em>The Metaverse</em>. It would look like a shitty warehouse if it weren’t made of brick, like it’s been standing for ages and worn down by the weather. It takes Mishima a twenty-minute train ride and a ten-minute walk to get there, before he sees the neon lights, the retro looking marquis sign, and the lit up translucent double doors.</p><p><em>Kids free on Tuesdays</em>! It reads, in loopy bright marker. <em>3 to 7 PM.</em></p><p>The team captain—Akira, he’d introduced himself—had let Mishima know that they practice after the place closes for the night. Akira had also said to wear something comfortable enough to sweat in, so he’s kind of chilly in nothing but a pair of tights and a jacket thrown over an old too big t-shirt.</p><p><em>Maybe it’s too much</em>, he thinks, and picks at the hem of the t-shirt. He’s seen some clips of girls playing roller derby, and the form fitting near vacuumed on shorts didn’t really look his style. Maybe that’s what the team will look like though, and Mishima will be horribly overdressed. Maybe they’ll tell him he’s dressed like an idiot and immediately rescind their offer for him to join the team. Maybe Mishima should just go home and forget about this socializing bullshit because clearly he’s not cut out for it and his bed has always been more welcoming than <em>roller derby</em>—</p><p>Okay, thank you brain. That’s more enough for tonight.</p><p>Rip off the band aid, he thinks, reaching for the door. Really, how bad could it be?</p><p>Of course, that’s when he notices the screaming.</p><p>“It’s not a fair fight!” he hears coming from a girl in a sling leaning against a wall jutting out of the floor. Well, maybe wall is too generous, seeing as it only comes up to her waist and is covered in the same tacky grey carpeting as the rest of the floor, a clear divide between the glossy hardwood rink and the rest of the space.</p><p>“You’re just scared you’re going to <em>lose</em>,” someone sings back, a boy skating backwards around the rink, grin curled up. And <em>he’s</em> wearing the shorts, fit tight to his figure, grin sharp as he maneuvers easily. Maybe Mishima should’ve just taken the plunge with him.</p><p>Quietly, he lets the door shut behind him, shuffling past a window that leads back into rows and rows of grey roller skates that smell like leather and plastic and some kind of disinfecting spray. The rest of the place is small, mostly taken up by the rink, flanked by a couple of tables and a little snack counter Mishima can see pushed off into a corner. It’s as neon on the inside as it was on the outside, the colors swimming back and forth and lighting up the ceiling like stars.</p><p>“<em>Duh</em>, I’m gonna lose!” the girl shouts back, leaning further over the wall. “My dominant hand is out of commission, asshole!”</p><p>“Um—” Mishima starts, clutching his bag against his shoulder.</p><p>“Where’s your honor amongst thieves?” says the tall boy hunched over a bench near one of the breaks in the wall. He runs a hand through shaggy curls, fingers coming away adorned with flecks of black nail polish, like they chipped off into his hair. “I thought you’d want to beat Ann fair and square, ‘yuji.”</p><p>“Exactly!” the girl—Ann?—shouts.</p><p>“Excuse me!” the blond boy yells, and Mishima shuffles a bit closer. He meets the eye of a petite brunette sitting off at one of the tables, doing up purple laces on a pair of white skates. She looks like a figure skater, in a pretty lose tank top hanging off of a dark sports bra. She sends him a sweet little smile he returns with a wave, trying to swallow around the apprehension curling tight in his chest. “Whose side are you on?”</p><p>“Whoever is making less noise,” grumbles another girl, leaning against the wall. “What time is it? Isn’t the rookie supposed to be here by now?”</p><p>“Um!” Mishima says, a little louder. He jumps, then, when everyone whips to him suddenly, save for the petite girl who just laughs. Everyone is <em>staring</em> and… really hot, Mishima notices. All the girls look like models, and the two boys are lithe and bigger than him, elegant on the side of the tall one and rugged for the one with the temper. They’re sharp, poised like animals about to strike, and Mishima feels like a rabbit that just wandering into a pack of lions.</p><p>“H-hi!” he says, quieter, and then immediately shrinks in on himself.</p><p>The girl in the sling gasps then, and takes a couple of bounds forward to grab his hand with her good arm. “Ryuji! You’re making me leave a bad first impression on the newbie!”</p><p>“<em>Me?</em>” someone gasps, affronted. Mishima has no idea who it is, because the girl is beaming up at him with a thousand watt smile, and Mishima nearly faints back into the floor. “The hell!? You’re the one too chicken shit to arm wrestle me!”</p><p>She whips around with a glare, one foot stomping against the ground like she’s throwing a tantrum. “With a torn rotator cuff? You just want the easy victory!”</p><p>“Alright,” the girl against the wall says with a clap. She reaches up and tugs on the end of a braided pigtail with a sigh. “Unless you two would like to waste what <em>very</em> little time we have currently, we should probably get to introductions and practice.”</p><p>“But—!”</p><p>“No <em>buts</em>,” she snaps, and Mishima yelps when she comes forward and puts a hand on his arm, guiding him over to the little seating area that looks like a mini version of a mall food court. “Come on—out of the rink.” She shoots a glare at the blond. “I’m sure you’re warm enough already, Ryuji.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, skating past the rink floor and back onto the carpet.</p><p>The girl leads them all over to gather around one of the bigger, rectangle tables pushed against the side of the floor, every person piling into and onto the table, flanking Mishima effectively and doing <em>very little</em> to curb his nerves.</p><p>They do introductions—Mishima puts names to faces. Ann is the girl in the sling perched up on top of the table, snorting whenever Ryuji, the blond with the bad temper, growls and pushes her feet from her lap. Haru is sitting demurely at his side, looking for the world like she needs a teacup in her hands and maybe a butler at her side, still sending off hearty rich kid vibes. Makoto is the one that seems to be calling all of the shots even though Mishima knows Akira is captain, and Akira is standing at the head of the table at Makoto’s side, eyes hidden behind his curly fringe.</p><p>It’s a little disorienting to say the least. He hadn’t been <em>quite</em> sure what he was expecting—maybe the girls from the videos he’d seen, with the sturdy bodies and the long-winded nicknames. Akira had mentioned their league was cooed, but he hadn’t expected… well. Akira is thin and pretty, but Mishima can see the hard lines of the muscle he has, and Makoto looks like one of those people you arm for fun even though you know you’re going to lose. Haru is probably the closest to what Mishima had envisioned from the team, but when he catches her eyes there’s something wicked gleaming in them that makes him whip back forward with a choked noise.</p><p>“So,” Makoto says, grabbing the reins of the conversation and pulling Mishima’s attention back. “We know some of what you’ve told to Akira already, but we’d like to confirm a few things outright.” Mishima swallows. “How well can you skate?”</p><p>A wince. “Well, I know how to keep my balance for the most part. I don’t have a ton of experience outside of the occasional trip to rinks with my siblings, though.”</p><p>Makoto sighs and nods. “Right. Well, it’s certainly a start. You’re aware that this position isn’t inherently permanent? You’re filling in for Ann until she’s fit to return to the team.”</p><p>Mishima nods again. That had kind of been a draw in for him. After all, if he hates it, he just has to do enough to get these people by, and he’ll have something to do with his frighteningly empty schedule.</p><p>“Good,” Makoto says. “Because of your relative inexperience, we’ve come up with a schedule to get you up to speed as fast as possible before our first game.”</p><p>“Um,” Mishima starts, shrinking a bit when Makoto’s gaze falls on him. “When <em>is</em> this first game, again?”</p><p>Makoto turns to Akira with a flat stare. “You didn’t tell him?” She gets a shrug in response that makes her huff. “Three weeks,” Makoto says, turning back to Mishima. His stomach drops. “We’re working our way towards championships right now, so it’s important we get you enough practice in to pull us through in case Ann won’t be back in time.”</p><p>Three weeks, Mishima thinks dizzily. For him to get to master a sport he’s never even <em>thought</em> about playing before, and well enough to get this team into championships. He might actually faint.</p><p>“Which <em>means</em>,” Ryuji says lowly, leaning across the table. “No better time to start practicin’ than now!”</p><p>He jumps when a hand lands on his shoulder, and looks back and forth as everyone starts to climb to their feet, offering him pats of encouragement on the shoulder as they migrate back towards the rink.</p><p>“Wait,” Mishima gasps. “Like, <em>right now</em>, right now?”</p><p>“Yep,” Akira says brightly, brushing past Mishima with a frustrating ruffle to his hair. “Ann’s got your skates.”</p><p>Mishima gapes as he heads off, and then starts when Ann settles in front of him, a pair of skates landing on the table with a <em>thud</em>.</p><p>“Nice to meet you,” Ann says, with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about this. I know it’s very fast.”</p><p>“You’re telling me,” Mishima mumbles, reaching out to pull the skates closer. They’re crimson red, like the card that <em>got</em> him into this mess, and covered in little drawing of white cats. Or… maybe they’re lions? Panthers? “I thought… you know. I’d get a second to catch my breath.”</p><p>“That’s what we try to do normally, yeah,” Ann says quietly, reaching up with her one good arm to twirl the end of a twin tail. Mishima sighs and gets to work lacing the skates up to the best of his ability. “Things are kind of… weird right now, though, if you didn’t realize.”</p><p>Mishima nods. Do the laces go all the way up the holes or do they stop somewhere lower than that? Does it even matter? “I figured.”</p><p>Ann fixes him with a smile that somehow makes Mishima remember to be <em>horribly</em> nervous—because pretty girl—but also eases a bit of the anxiety of feeling like a planet out of orbit. He’ll be lucky if crashing into the sun is the worst thing to come out of this alone. “You’ll do great,” she says gently, and <em>god</em> if Mishima doesn’t want to believe it.</p><p>He ties the skates as tight as they go—he’s lucky Ann is his size—and stands on wobbly legs to start towards where the other theives are standing, chatting as Ryuji tapes over a fading line on the floor.</p><p>Skating on carpet? Easy. The easiest thing Mishima has done in twenty years of life. The second his skates touch the rink, though, it feels like his knees turn to jelly, and he goes down on his ass with a hiss.</p><p>“Not bad,” Akira commends, skating up with an extended hand. “That was probably the fastest someone has wiped out at a practice since Ryuji joined.”</p><p>“Hey!”</p><p>“Oh,” chirps Haru, “but didn’t Makoto lose her balance coming through the door the other week?”</p><p>“<em>Moving on</em>,” Makoto growls, cheeks turning pink. “Racing.”</p><p>“Racing?” Mishima says emptily.</p><p>“Racing!” Ryuji barks, an arm pulled across his chest in a lazy looking stretch. Mishima shoots Makoto an incredulous look that makes her adjust her headband slightly.</p><p>“We want to get a handle on your skating style so we know what to work on over the coming weeks. We’re doing two laps, as fast as possible, <em>no </em>checking,” she says, with a glare thrown in Haru’s direction. Mishima watches Haru giggle and feels a chill shoot through him.</p><p>“It’ll be easy!” Ryuji says, and circles around Mishima’s body to press his hands to his shoulders. “Well, it should be, anyway.”</p><p>“Just don’t fall,” Akira notes, as Mishima stands at the taped line, hands shaking as he glances at the curve of the rink in front of him. Lord help him.</p><p>“Don’t fall,” Mishima repeats hollowly.</p><p>Makoto glances at a watch on her wrist, and then back out at the track. “Three, two, one—”</p><p>It’s like watching a gun go off.</p><p>Mishima takes a few halting steps forward, but Akira, Ryuji, Makoto, and Haru are like lightning, like they got shoved forward and are on a coast downhill. There’s a laugh, a shove from Ryuji, and muscle memory is Mishima’s savior, keeping him from going down on his as right away. He yelps and pushes forward harder, arms pinwheeling out when he loses his balance and then tries to keep speed. He’s desperate to keep up, but he’s always a sharp breath away from landing on his ass, and his brain is just an echo of Akira demanding <em>don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall</em>. The space between them stretches out further and further with every lap, and Mishima takes turns like a snail, growling when he trips over his own skates and nearly goes down on his face.</p><p>He can see everyone else pulling ahead, Ryuji and Akira maintaining a slight lead as they skate around, bodies low and hair wild as they speed around.</p><p>“Last lap!” Makoto announces from in front of him, and Mishima growls, trying to push his legs faster, to match the easy footfalls of the other skaters. He’s almost got it, taking the last curve easily until suddenly he’s yelping, and landing on his ass, sliding to a halt at the finish line where everyone is waiting.</p><p>“Sorry,” he pants, glancing up when he realizes the other members barely look <em>winded</em>, even though Mishima is barely drinking in enough air as is.</p><p>Makoto and Akira share a glance that looks apprehensive at best, and disbelieving at worst, before eyes land back on Mishima’s, and he has to drop his head to hide his flaming cheeks.</p><p>“Alright,” Akira sighs. His gaze is sharp, even in the half dark, and Mishima presses his hands to his knees to keep them from trembling. “You could use some work.”</p><p>Makoto winces. “Actually, a <em>lot</em> of work. We’d hoped you’d be a little more experienced, but—”</p><p>“Even newbies can do twenty seven of those in five minutes. Easy.”</p><p>Mishima blinks up at Akira. Did he say <em>twenty seven</em>? Like, twenty seven laps around that whole rink?</p><p>Makoto crosses her arms and clears her throat, glancing to the side uncomfortably. “We’d spoken about a…um… well, a <em>worst case</em> scenario earlier, and—”</p><p>“If you can’t do that in two weeks, we’re just going to practice with the four of us,” Akira explains. He sighs and skates forward. “You know what that means, right?”</p><p>Mishima glances down at his hands, at the sweat dripping off of his chin onto the floor. He nods.</p><p>“Two weeks,” Makoto repeats darkly, and when Mishima glances up, watches all the gazes around him turn sharp, warning.</p><p>“This ain’t your mama’s roller derby,” Ryuji says.</p><p>“We’re not going to baby you,” Haru chirps.</p><p>Mishima is starting to feel like maybe he’s gotten himself into more than he bargained for. He wipes some of the sweat off of his face with a nod.</p><p>“If you get it,” Akira hums, “let’s skate.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading! Chapter two uhhh soon! Come say hi on <a href="https://twitter.com/tobi_yos">twitter</a> where I ramble about p5 and stuff and also post wips from time to time! Laterzzz</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>So, roller derby just went from hard to… um, near impossible.</p><p>Ryuji and Akira are black and yellow stars pushing through the pack, blurry red and black and yellow around every other player. It’s different watching them skate now that he knows what it feels like to be besides them, and he can’t help the little shiver of excitement that goes through him when he thinks about being out there on the track with Akira at his side again, Ryuji at his back. </p><p>Oh, uh, and the rest of The Theives too, of course.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi welcome back to the most self indulgent thing I've ever written</p><p>Getting into the meat and bones this chapter. Please, pray for me. This fic is at least 30k words.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Mishima wakes up feeling like he’s been hit by a bus.</p><p>He’s never been big on exercise, so rolling out of bed after a solid few hours of nothing but pure conditioning makes him hit the floor <em>hard.</em> He’s lucky his roommate is literally never in, so he doesn’t get to witness the plight of Yuuki Mishima and the floor, featuring the bruises he can feel have already bloomed across his hips and—ugh—his <em>ass</em>. He feels more jelly than man.</p><p><em>“For now,”</em> <em>Makoto had said yesterday,</em> “<em>you’re practicing every day. We know it’s a lot, but you also kind of need the extra help. Akira and Ryuji will be overseeing your progress in daily practice, and if you’re able to manage twenty-seven laps in five minutes, we’ll start up with group practices again the week before the game.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Why Akira and Ryuji?” Mishima had blurted, wholly unable to stop himself. He’d had to peel himself off of the track and out of the small puddle of his own sweat he’d created while Makoto ran him through strengthening exercises.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m our jammer,” Akira explained, leaned against the divider wall. “Team’s offence revolves around me, so you’ll need to get used to playing with my style.” Ryuji had laughed as Akira leaned the knee he’d had in the small of his back forward, pressing Ryuji into a deeper stretch. “Ryuji’s our most experienced blocker, and since you’re taking another blockers position, he’s the best man for the job.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Babe,” Ryuji says, tipping his head back slightly. “you’re making me blush.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“And,” Ann adds with an eye roll from the sidelines, “Ryuji goes wherever Akira does anyway.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Hey!” Ryuji barked.</em>
</p><p>Present Mishima sighs. He’s got a class in an hour, and a ten-minute walk from his dorm room, and he literally feels like his bones are going to shatter if he takes a single step. And did he mention he literally feels like he broke something in his tailbone?</p><p>Akira had texted him the previous night when he’d gotten home, letting him know that any questions he had could go through him and Ryuji (<em>Just text me</em>, Akira said. <em>Half the time it’s Ryuji messaging back anyway)</em> so he bats around on his bed until he finds his phone, shooting off a quick message.</p><p>
  <strong>8:02 A.M.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Akira, um &lt; Yuuki</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Do you have any pointers for soreness? &lt; Yuuki</em>
</p><p>
  <em>… and bruising? &lt; Yuki</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Akira &gt; Lots of ice, and hold on for the sore thing. Ryuji has a good stretching routine, give me a second</em>
</p><p>Mishima lets out a relieved breath. He’d been half worried that this would <em>somehow</em> be overstepping some invisible boundaries, but Akira doesn’t seem too put off. With another grunt and twinge in his leg, Mishima is climbing shakily to his feet, leaning over to dig through the small pile of laundry he still hasn’t put away for something to wear to his lecture. His phone buzzes again.</p><p>
  <strong>8:03 A.M.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Akira &gt; Ryuji is being a little shithead and won’t let me give away his stretching routine</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Akira &gt; It’s not even his routine. Makoto made it for him</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Akira &gt; MISHIMA THIS IS RYUJI. IT’S A TEAM SECRET. WE ARE HAZING YOU</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Akira &gt; We are not hazing you. </em>
</p><p>Mishima snorts down at his phone and tugs his shirt over his head.</p><p>
  <strong>8:03 A.M.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Um, can we haze on a different day? I’d like to be able to walk to class &gt; Yuuki</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Akira &gt; …FINE</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Akira &gt; BUT YOU WILL EARN OTHER TIPS, MISHIMA</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thank you, Ryuji &gt; Yuuki</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>This shouldn’t really come as a surprise, but Mishima doesn’t got a ton of text messages. His messages are mostly from his sisters or his parents, or the grocery store reward system he’s signed up for, so when his phone vibrates <em>again</em> in the middle of the day, he’s wholly unexpecting it. He pulls his phone out underneath the lecture hall table and nearly yelps when he sees it’s <em>Ann</em> who texted him, and out of nowhere at that.</p><p>He bites his thumb and tries to soothe some of the anxious knots forming at the back of his throat.</p><p>
  <strong>9:27 A.M.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Ann &gt; Hi Mishima! This is Ann, btw. I know Akira gave you our numbers, but I just want to make sure haha</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ann &gt; Anyway! I know you were probably feeling a little overwhelmed at practice, sooo I got some of our old team videos if you want to check out what are matches are like :)</em>
</p><p>Mishima glances back up at the front of the lecture hall, and then back down at his phone. It’s rare for people to just go out of their way to help him, especially without him having to do some hardcore begging beforehand. The change is kind of refreshing.</p><p>
  <strong>9:28 A.M</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Thank you! That sounds really helpful, I appreciate it &gt; Yuuki</em>
</p><p>He waits for a minute or so, trying to follow the lecture well enough to be able to remember what to put into his notes later, when his phone buzzes, a surprisingly clear preview of a YouTube video popping up in his messages.</p><p>He jumps when his professor clears her voice, face flushing when he realizes she’s looking right at him. Ah, busted.</p><p>He’ll check it out later.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“<em>Fuck off!</em>”</p><p>Mishima winces in his empty dorm room, watching in near HD as Akira takes an elbow to the face, and turns right back around to push some tall guy into the wall of the same rink Mishima had been stood in unassumingly the day before. The teams are split clearly into red and black, The Theives all outfitted in red and white jerseys bearing varying numbers.</p><p>There’s shouting, a flurry of movement in the video as bodies press and mesh and collide, and at the end of it, Akira shooting past the crowd, buoyed by shouts of <em>Go, Joker!</em> And <em>Take him down!</em></p><p>It’s kind of… a lot for Mishima to take in, if he’s honest. There’s snarling and blood, and Mishima hears something that sounds suspiciously like a bone cracking, even as the pack of skaters thins back out and people seem to split off into pairs intent on holding each other back. The only person left free standing is Ryuji, who slides out of the headlock one of the opposite team’s players tries to put him in so he can reach back and take Akira’s hand when he rejoins the pack.</p><p>Everyone is caked in sweat and bleeding from cuts and bruised to hell and back, but the look in Akira and Ryuji’s eyes is <em>otherworldly</em>. Akira’s face is quirked up in unmistakable glee, and Ryuji’s is mirrored right back, his grin big and bloody as they fight their way through the opposite team until someone whistles.</p><p>It’s exciting. It’s overwhelming. Mishima can’t tell if he’s more scared or excited.</p><p>He opens up his text conversation with Ann.</p><p>
  <strong>2:21 P.M.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>I didn’t know this would be so… serious, I guess? Like, you guys are hardcore &lt; Yuuki</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ann &gt; I really hope you weren’t thinking we were a bunch of casuals, Mishima</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Well, you said you weren’t regulation, so I guess I just kind of assumed… lighthearted and fun? &lt; Yuuki</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That was… &lt; Yuuki</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ann &gt; Kind of crazy, right?</em>
</p><p>Mishima thinks about the blood on Ryuji’s mouth, the bruise on Akira’s shoulder. Sure, crazy.</p><p>
  <strong>2:23 P.M.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Ann &gt; Derby is our lifeblood. Some of us are students and stuff, sure, but this is what we love. It’s all some of us care about</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ann &gt; It’s our heart</em>
</p><p><em>Their heart</em>. Mishima has never been one for too much action—perfectly content with his solitude during his high school years. What is it like to care about something that passionately? What is it like to <em>want to?</em></p><p>The stretching routine Akira sent him is sitting in his messages. Mishima stares up at the ceiling with a sigh.</p><p>He’s got four hours until practice starts. There’s no roommate to hear this groan, either.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>So, Mishima skates like a baby duckling.</p><p>It had been kind of cute on that first day when everyone was still pumped up for a new member, excited for what lie in wait for an otherwise stagnant team.</p><p>Looking at him now, Ryuji wonders if maybe they gave the universe too much credit.</p><p>Actually, as Mishima wobbles on his skates on what’s barely his third, glacial speed lap, what he thinks is probably closer to, <em>we’re fucked.</em></p><p>“We’re not fucked,” Akira says quietly, leaning over the railing to watch Mishima warm up on his pair of Ann’s borrowed skates. “It’s probably not hopeless.”</p><p>“I like the ‘probably’ in that,” Ryuji sighs. “Yo!” he shouts, waving his arm over his head. Mishima lifts his head from where he was watching his feet—jesus christ, when did the clock strike amateur hour—and skates over slowly, at least managing to look kind of like he’s not close to falling over when Ryuji sneezes.</p><p>“Sooo,” Ryuji drags out, leaning over the divider wall. “You’re really new. We figured that out already.”</p><p>Mishima drops his eyes with a kind of bashful look, that’s… a little cute, if he’s honest. “I know how it looks—”</p><p>“Bad?” Akira suggests, and Ryuji elbows him behind the wall.</p><p>“Yeah,” Mishima sighs. “B-but I’m going to work on it! I’m a fast learner, and I can’t let you guys down, right?”</p><p>Ryuji casts a look in Akira’s direction, catches him making the same expression. <em>Fucked</em>.</p><p>“Fast isn’t going to cut it,” Akira says, skating behind Ryuji towards the opening onto the rink. “Fast is for the people we take in with a month before a <em>practice</em> game.” Ryuji watches him put a hand on Mishima’s back and usher him forward, able to tell that he’s already trying to work on Mishima’s posture. Ryuji’s own form sucks, but he’s already on the team, so. Tough.</p><p>“We kind of need you to learn… supersonic,” Ryuji explains, peeling away to join them. He skates into the rink and then around their bodies, moving backwards as Akira takes Mishima around the track, hand moving as Mishima’s weight shifts, until he seems a little steadier on his feet.</p><p>“I, um, looked up the rules,” Mishima offers, yelping when he stumbles on a bad turn. He gets his balance back fast though, almost like he’s moving straight through the mistake back into standing properly. Hm. “Scoring points, uh, terminology.”</p><p>Akira’s mouth presses into a tight line when Mishima stumbles again, but Ryuji can see the basics starting to set in. Left foot out, right foot out, rinse, repeat, hips forward.</p><p>“You’re half there,” Akira murmurs, and Ryuji isn’t sure if it’s a comment about his form or the rules. He takes his hands away from Mishima’s back and Ryuji takes over, reaching for Mishima’s wrists to pull him forward faster, trying not to frown as he struggles with his balance. Right foot… left foot… “What you read is right for <em>regulation</em> derby.” Mishima’s hand shoots out to steady himself on Ryuji’s, eyes snapping up apologetically, pulling himself back into standing straight.</p><p>“Regulation?” he asks over his shoulder, and Ryuji is kind of impressed he can do that without falling.</p><p>Akira nods. He lifts a hand and ticks off on his fingers. “Jammers score points on blockers, five skaters on the track, 30 seconds between jams. But that part about hitting with your elbows, or your knees, or <em>with the intent to harm</em> or whatever?” His smile takes on an edge, fingers falling away. “Forget that part.”</p><p>Ryuji meets his eye with his own grin, watching the way Akira’s eyes go sharp. They always do that when he gets started on derby, and Ryuji knows whatever too excited expression on his face is mirrored right back on Ryuji’s. “It’s a lawless land out there,” Ryuji says lowly, dramatically, and tugs on Mishima’s hands so he faces forward again. “Getting out of the pack is the jammer’s priority, and what he does to get there is up to him, and, as far as our league cares, is fair game.”</p><p>Akira’s hand goes out to rest on Mishima’s shoulder, and he glances at it, right before he’s shoved forward, rolling across the track with a yelp, barely avoiding Ryuji as he swerves out of the way. He looks unmoored now that all of his assistance is gone, hands out straight at his side like he’s already anticipating the fall.</p><p>“Try to beat me around the rink,” Akira says evenly, and Mishima barely gets a second to blink before he’s off, skates whirring against the floor as he flies forward.</p><p>Ryuji laughs when Mishima yelps, before he shoves him forward again helpfully, watching him put the new form, the better footing to use. It’s an improvement, but Akira is <em>fast</em>, and Mishima takes turns too sharp and nearly falls ever time. But Ryuji can see him learning, the gears turning in his head. His legs are hard, he pumps his skates fast, and chases Akira back up to where they left Ryuji, leaning up against the small half wall at the edge of the rink.</p><p>“Not bad,” Akira says, when Mishima slams into the wall at their side. “Definitely could have been worse.”</p><p>Ryuji gives a bark of laughter Mishima barely hears over his own wheezing breaths. “I was surprised you didn’t fall there, man.”</p><p>Mishima wheezes. “Thank you.”</p><p>There’s a hand on the back of his neck, cool on his already heating skin. “Nineteen seconds,” Akira says evenly, and his voice is like water, barely winded at all. “Twenty-seven in five minutes means eleven seconds for a lap.”</p><p>“Eleven,” Mishima parrots back, glancing at Ryuji like he can’t help it.</p><p>Ryuji shrugs, leaning forward to clap Mishima on the shoulder. “You heard him,” he says, smiling.</p><p>“Now. My turn.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>So, roller derby just went from hard to… um, near impossible.</p><p>Mishima is sitting on the edge of his bed after practice, fresh out of the dorm showers, and chewing on a fingernail as he watches Theives skate again, an ice pack pressed to the fresh bruise on his hip.</p><p>Ryuji and Akira are black and yellow stars pushing through the pack, blurry red and black and yellow around every other player. It’s different watching them skate now that he knows what it feels like to be <em>besides</em> them, and he can’t help the little shiver of excitement that goes through him when he thinks about being out there on the track with Akira at his side again, Ryuji at his back. Oh, uh, and the rest of The Theives too, of course.</p><p>They’re still going faster than he’s probably comfortable with, flying around the track easily. At that speed of <em>course</em> they can do Twenty-seven laps in five minutes. Mishima can barely make three before he’s out on his ass.</p><p>He tips over into his bed with a groan. Excitement means <em>nothing</em>. What was he <em>thinking</em>? He’s never been the sporty type, save for the occasional gym class at school, and trying to keep up with everybody just feels like—</p><p>
  <em>Fast isn’t going to cut it.</em>
</p><p>He lifts his head and glances at the skates by the side of his bed. Hand me downs, temporary, looking like they’re one good game away from falling apart entirely. The paint is peeling a little bit, the red slightly dull with age, and, most importantly, clearly not his. They’re not his—he’s a stranger in this little world he’s been let into, he’s a stray dagger in The Thieves <em>heart</em>. They’re <em>serious</em>.</p><p>Shit, he should be too.</p><p>He knows it’s late, but… he <em>has</em> the skates, doesn’t he? It’s not like he can’t practice on his own, just to get a bit more confident on the wheels. There’s no way it can do <em>more</em> harm.</p><p>The next time he watches the video through, he keeps an eye on Akira’s legs and studies how he flies.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Not half bad,” Ryuji says gently, offering Mishima his own water bottle. Mishima takes it gratefully, splayed out on the floor of the rink, panting like he’s run a mile. Maybe he <em>has</em>, considering doesn’t know how far around the rink is, and the twenty-seven laps they’d done certainly feels like it could get there.</p><p>“Thank you,” he says, and tips the bottle back into his mouth. Water has literally never tasted as good as it does now, and Akira laughs when Mishima makes a noise like a wounded animal. “I don’t get how you guys do this,” he murmurs, looking away instinctively when Akira lifts the edge of his tank top to wipe at the sweat beading on his brow. He catches a sliver of ivory skin, shiny with sweat.</p><p>“Muscle memory,” Ryuji says with a shrug, and reaches down to offer Mishima a hand. He grasps it thankfully, and then groans when Ryuji confiscates his water bottle. “It gets easier the more you do it,” he explains, and Mishima jumps when a hand comes to rest high on his arm.</p><p>“We should probably do some form training,” Akira says evenly, and a fuse blows in his brain when Akira slides a hand up his back, tacky with sweat but straightening his spine anyway. His fingers are long, Mishima notes, and his hands are really strong, molding Mishima’s posture easily. “If you hurt yourself off of the track it’ll be the pits.”</p><p>“R-right,” Mishima says quietly, and then makes an <em>ah</em>! Noise when Akira grabs him by the hip and pulls backwards. His skates make it impossible to stop, back hitting Akira’s chest as he goes.</p><p>“Your weight is supposed to roll through your heels,” he explains, and Mishima shoots a look in Ryuji’s direction he hopes gets read as <em>help</em>. Instead, Ryuji just snickers, leaning against the wall to take a sip out of his water bottle. A little like its unconscious, Akira’s hand slides back up over his arm and down his shoulder blades, until he can grip Mishima gently by the waist. And, <em>wow</em>, Mishima likes the way Akira’s hands feel on his body. They’re leaving little sparks wherever they go, nails dull but scratching gently at Mishima’s t-shirt. <em>He probably touches everyone like this</em>, he thinks, even as Akira’s hand stops just at the base of his spine, palm warm against Mishima’s cooling skin. He wonders how any of the thieves stay <em>sane.</em></p><p>“You’re staying low, at least,” Akira says, more like he’s talking to himself.</p><p>With an uncontrollable shiver, Mishima glances over his shoulder, face going red. “S-should we get back to practice? So, I can, um… So, I can try that?”</p><p>“Hm?” Akira says, meeting his eye. His face is a little cloudy in concentration, but it clears incrementally, hands sliding away as Akira turns to move back to the jammer line. “Oh, yeah. We’re keeping up falling practice though. You don’t need to get hurt when you go down either.”</p><p>Dueling disappointment and relief fill his system when Akira’s hands leave him, forgotten for a moment when Ryuji skates by to clap him on the shoulder.</p><p>“Right,” Mishima says. “I’ll do my best.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Mishima takes his skates in his bag to his afternoon lecture, and then, on the bench outside, laces them up and gets unsteadily to his feet.</p><p>Concrete feels <em>much</em> different under his skates than the sleek hardwood of the rink does. It’s more textured, and harder to keep friction up on, but it’s <em>something</em> at least, considering he still needs to be able to hold his own on the track. A few people stare as he makes a lap around the quad, and Mishima wilts a bit under the attention, <em>especially</em> when he nearly falls and lets out an embarrassing squeak.</p><p>Getting better isn’t impossible, he knows. Akira wouldn’t give him a goal he can’t reach on his own. He just has to keep his head up, keep focused—</p><p>He goes down on his ass and sticks his arms out straight in front of him to keep from scratching his hands on the concrete.</p><p>“Ugh,” he mumbles, rolling onto his kneepads and reaching back to pat at his poor, bruised ass.</p><p>“You okay, man?”</p><p>Mishima glances up at the person standing over him, one of the students from his classes that he barely speaks to. He’s got a hand extended, a worried little crease in his eyebrows.</p><p>“Oh, I’m fine,” he assures, taking the strangers hand anyway. His hands are smaller than Akira’s, he notices. “Thanks for uh. The… help.”</p><p>“No problem!” he says, grinning. “Nice skates, by the way.”</p><p>Mishima glances down at Ann’s skates, the curl of the little cartoon panther’s tail staring back. “Ah!” he laughs, rubbing at an arm. “They’re loaned.”</p><p>“They’re cool as hell,” the guy says, glancing off behind him. “Don’t break anything important, yeah?” he says, and Mishima blinks, realizing this stranger is being… friendly. Is it just because of the skates?</p><p>“Thanks,” he says slowly, waving as the guy heads back towards the group of friends it looks like he peeled away from.</p><p>He… talked to somebody. His age. And they didn’t think he was annoying or anything! Or, he didn’t seem to, anyway.</p><p>He glances down at the skates again, and then at the walkway ahead of him.</p><p><em>Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad</em>, he thinks, keeping his weight on his hips, his center of gravity low. When he falls, he keeps his hands up. Can’t break anything important.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>7:42 P.M</strong>
</p><p>Got any more video recommendations? &lt; Mishima</p><p>Only if it’s not too much trouble! &lt; Mishima</p><p>Ann &gt; Of course!</p><p>Ann &gt; How are practices going btw? Akira and Ryuji aren’t running you too ragged, right?</p><p>haha no &lt; Mishima</p><p>Mishima glances down at the ice pack he’s got pressed against a particularly bad bruise on his leg.</p><p>
  <strong>7:46 P.M.</strong>
</p><p>Well… &lt; Mishima</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“What’s that?” Ryuji asks, leaning over Mishima’s shoulder.</p><p>“Oh!” Mishima yelps, nearly dropping his phone. “It’s, um,” he lifts the screen where Ryuji can see it better. “It’s one of your old matches. Ann has been sending me videos, and I thought they’d be good reference material…”</p><p>“Mm,” Ryuji hums. “You stalking us, Mi’ma?</p><p>Mishima sputters, nearly sliding from the little plastic chair he’s taken residence in. “N-no! Of course not! I just thought, uh, since I wasn’t actually going to be able to practice with all of the theives in one sitting a video might be my next best source—that’s not to say I’m taking you and Akira’s coaching for granted! I just figured I’d need the e-extra help—”</p><p>“Dude,” Ryuji laughs, and his hand comes down on Mishima shoulder. “I was just teasing. It’s chill.”</p><p>“Oh,” Mishima breathes, glancing down at the paused screen of the video. “R-right.”</p><p>Ryuji skates around the back of the chair, already laced up and ready for whenever Akira is ready. “Actually, that’s probably not a bad idea.” His face splits into a grin that fills Mishima with the distinct and now familiar sense that he’s bitten off more than he can chew. “I’ve got an idea for how to give you a sense of the team dynamic.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Mishima goes down <em>hard</em> when Akira slams into him with a snarl, sprawling over the floor and carefully avoiding hitting his head on the track.</p><p>“You listening?” Ryuji calls.</p><p>“Trying to!” Mishima groans.</p><p> “First things first, we’ve got our second in command. That’s Queen,” Mishima dodges a grab Akira makes for his waist shakily, narrowly avoiding hitting the separator wall. “Orders from Queen are absolute,” Ryuji shouts, poised in the middle of the rink, watching as Akira chases Mishima around the rink, banking off for a few seconds after every impact. “She doesn’t make our plays, but she <em>does</em> change them, because of all of us, Makoto knows what’s going on in real time in the rink better than anyone. Queen tells you to duck, you <em>duck</em>—when she says move you <em>move</em>. The second you think about disobeying is the second an enemy jammer gets past and <em>bam</em>—” Akira hips checks him into a wall, and Mishima nearly goes to his knees again. “You’re on the floor.”</p><p>Finishing the lap is an exercise in Mishima keeping his breathing, before he’s forced to up his speed, legs crossing as he takes a turn without wobbling even the slightest. He smiles. “Next,” Ryuji calls, and suddenly Akira is nowhere to be found, and then he’s <em>right there</em>, legs sweeping as he takes Mishima’s legs out from underneath him. Mishima lands on his back with a grunt, all that precious air knocked cleanly from his lungs. “Noir is the glue in our many, <em>many</em> cracks. She shows up just where you need her, or, if you’re on the opposite team, exactly where you’d hate her to be.” Mishima crawls back onto his skates, squinting as Akira skates backwards in front of him, watching for his next move, and then yelping as Akira whips around and backs into Mishima like a <em>train</em>, skates clacking against Mishima’s dangerously as he tries to impede his blocker’s movement. “She’s good for our one-on-ones. Meaning, we usually sick her on rival jammers. Noir can stop anyone in their tracks, and she <em>will</em> trash talk you while she does it.”</p><p>“That the best you can do?” Akira growls, and his leg catches Mishima’s skate just right to send him flying forward, hitting the track on his knees. Mishima pants, staring down at the floor, and then pushes himself back up, determined to not let Akira through. “Pathetic,” Akira spits, and Mishima sets his face, and takes off down the track again, doing his best to avoid every push and shove from Akira’s direction.</p><p>“She always apologizes after bouts, but Noir is <em>mean</em>. She gets inside your head.”</p><p>Another lap. Mishima feels like his ankles are going to snap off. He keeps moving anyway.</p><p>“Panther was our bulldozer,” Akira starts, and Mishima glances at him at his side. He narrowly avoids getting checked into the wall again. “That’s who you’re filling in for. She broke the blockers I couldn’t get through and made it hell on earth for the strongest of any player.”</p><p>“Ann always got back up, in the end,” Ryuji says, and Mishima pushes back when Akira grinds their shoulders together. “She was our heavy hitter. You didn’t take down Ann without some kind of disadvantage. Ann opens the way when we get in trouble.”</p><p>Akira pushes him into the wall. Mishima pushes right back.</p><p>Another lap.</p><p>“Need to take a break?” Akira asks. Mishima takes a deep breath. They’re on lap six, he thinks. His legs are starting to shake but… twenty-seven, Akira had said. He can’t give up now.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Mishima pants.</p><p>“Your last blocker is me,” Ryuji says. Mishima jumps when he feels a hand on his back, because Akira has been playing offence this whole time, but now it feels… different. Shifted. Like he’s trying to align their energy, pull Mishima into his own rhythm. “I’m Akira’s shield, and the basis of our wall.”</p><p>“When I’m in the pack,” Akira says lowly, right into Mishima’s ear. His breath is hot, leaving little goosebumps popping up over his skin, “Skull is my shadow. Nobody touches me without going through him.”</p><p>“Everyone else’s priority is on the opposite jammer. Mine is on Akira.”</p><p>Mishima… feels it. Akira takes his hand off of his back but he doesn’t move from Mishima’s side, falling in with his body as they take the track in stride. He’s an extension of Akira’s limbs. It’s empowering, even without anyone to fight against.</p><p>“I’m the pivot,” Ryuji calls. “If we need me, Akira and I switch positions, and I take over as jammer and set the pace of the rest of the team.”</p><p>“Got it,” Mishima says.</p><p>Last lap, he thinks.</p><p>“<em>You’re</em> a blocker,” Akira says, and Mishima feels Akira dip away, returning to offence. “If you get to team practice, we’ll see where you fit in, and me, Makoto, and our strategist will figure out what you’ll be best for.”</p><p>Mishima nods, dropping low to take the final lap as quickly as possible. He gets the memo. Be useful, be <em>good</em> for something. Stand out. Play a part.</p><p>Mishima has never really done that before. He wonders if he can pull it off now.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Sorry!” Mishima calls, skating out of the way when he nearly bulldozes a girl around a corner. She jumps, eyes wide, but keeps walking, and Mishima skates forward with his head a little lower.</p><p>Akira and Ryuji are part of a team, he rationalizes, as he skates over a creaking bridge. They’re all… good at something. Panther, Noir, Queen, Skull, Joker.</p><p>He taps for the next video in the playlist Ann has set up, the sound of cheering and whistling coming through his earbuds as he skates the mostly empty quad. There’s an energy to the team that he’s just not a part of yet. He’s a satellite in orbit of fully formed planets, and he’s barely got time to condense into a star.</p><p>Fit in and stand out. It sounds harder than it should.</p><p>He trips over the leg of one of the benches with a yelp, landing on a hip instead of his hands. It still hurts like a motherfucker, but it’s not a <em>break</em> and that’s what matters. <em>Don’t get hurt off of the track</em>, he thinks, glaring at the bench.</p><p>When he grabs his phone from the ground, it’s thankfully undamaged, the video still playing as Ryuji crashes into some blockers back. Maybe though, if that were him…</p><p><em>Time to get up.</em> He thinks. Fit in, stand out.</p><p>Shit.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“How long has he been at this?” Ryuji asks.</p><p>Akira glances over his shoulder, watching Ryuji set his bag down in one of the chair and come to stand at his side, eyes going to Mishima’s form on the rink. “Since we closed.”</p><p>If Akira were being polite, he’d say Mishima looks like a <em>mess</em>. He’s slick with sweat and panting hard, body shaking as he takes laps as fast as possible, over and over and over again. Akira thinks about offering one of his ponytail holders when Mishima tosses his bangs out of his face for the tenth time.</p><p>“What lap?” Ryuji asks, leaning onto the railing next to Akira, arms folding over each other as Mishima whips past, barely more than a quick vision of blue and white.</p><p>“Seventeen.”</p><p>Ryuji glances at him sideways. “How long has it been?”</p><p>Akira checks his watch. “Four minutes.” Mishima makes another lap.</p><p>Ryuji whistles. “He’s really serious about this.”</p><p>“Seems like it,” Akira sighs. “We’re not pushing him too hard, right?”</p><p>“Nah,” Ryuji says, and pats at his low back. When he glances back at Mishima, he looks focused, mouth pressed tight and hands twitching like he wants to grab at the air and <em>make</em> himself go faster. “I think this is all him.” Mishima makes another lap. Four twenty-six. “Well, we’ll see, huh?”</p><p>They watch him skate quietly, and Mishima seems to be so caught up in keeping his balance and speed constant that he hasn’t even noticed they’re there. Akira’s watch beeps, the alarm tone going off.</p><p>“<em>Damn it!</em>” he shouts, as he comes to a stop, right at the line. “That was too slow, I know it was, I’m <em>sorry</em>—”</p><p>“Twenty,” Akira blurts, still glancing at his watch. Ryuji laughs quietly at his side, skating out into the rink towards Mishima’s side. “Twenty laps in five minutes.”</p><p>Mishima glances up, sweat sliding off of his cheeks onto the rink. “A-are you sure?”</p><p>Akira nods. “You made twenty laps in five minutes. You’re getting there.”</p><p>“That’s progress!” Ryuji shouts, and offers a hand. “You look exhausted though, dude.”</p><p>Mishima rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck with the hand not in Ryuji’s. “Sorry, I’m not used to this much exercise. Probably doesn’t help that I’ve been at this since I got out of class.”</p><p>“What?” Ryuji yelps, dropping his hand to whip around and look at Akira. “I thought you said he’d only been at this since you closed?”</p><p>Akira shrugs. “He was warming up before everybody left. I told him since we were still open I couldn’t help, but it seemed fine.”</p><p>Ryuji whistles. “That’s impressive, dude.” The amount of practicing the theives do before Akira has closed The Metaverse is minimal, though that’s mostly because the owner doesn’t know they’re doing it in the first place. Akira would tell him, but, what Igor doesn’t know won’t hurt him.</p><p>Ryuji’s face twists though, as Mishima’s words sink in. “Wait, you came right after a class? Did you eat dinner?”</p><p>Mishima’s face flushes in a way that looks a hell of a lot more like embarrassment than exertion, gaze darting to the corner of the rink. “Uh, forgot.”</p><p>“<em>Dude,</em>” Ryuji wails. “What the hell? You don’t <em>forget</em> to eat, and you definitely don’t skate on an empty stomach.”</p><p>“I ate lunch—” Mishima tries to protest. Ryuji grabs him by the shoulders and turns him around, pushing him back towards the carpet. Akira shakes his head. He knows this fight, and it is not one Ryuji loses easily.</p><p>“When did you eat lunch?” Ryuji says firmly.</p><p>“E-eleven,” Mishima admits guilty. Ryuji makes a groaning noise. Akira laughs.</p><p>“Grab my keys,” Ryuji shouts, and pushes Mishima onto a bench. Akira can hear them bickering lightly as he digs through the pockets of Ryuji’s jacket for his car keys, walking over to stand in front of them as Ryuji gets down on a knee and undoes Mishima’s secondhand skates.</p><p>“Dumbass,” Ryuji says lowly, fussing over Mishima’s laces as he undoes them with a frown. “We’re taking you to get food.”</p><p>“But—!”</p><p>“No buts!” Ryuji says firmly, and glances around. “Idiots overwork themselves and skip meals. We’ll bring you back after you <em>eat</em> something and see if you can break twenty-five laps today.”</p><p>Mishima looks like he wants to fight, but Akira has been on the receiving end of the argument enough that he slides up behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder, head shaking when Mishima glances up. “Fine,” he huffs, arms crossing over his chest. Akira ruffles his hair with a smile.</p><p>Ryuji sends them both a glare, and Akira laughs when he tugs too hard at Mishima’s skates, earning a startled yelp.</p><p>“Where are your shoes?” he demands.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Mishima gets crammed into the backseat of a beat-up little sedan (<em>She drives—that’s what matters</em>, Ryuji grumbles) and carted off to a tiny restaurant with unholy hours, thrown into a booth, and then ordered for.</p><p>“Sorry,” Akira sighs, as the waitress walks away without Mishima having even uttered a word. “Ryuji is a mother hen when it comes to our team.”</p><p>“That’s ‘cause you’re all dumb as hell,” Ryuji says, throwing an arm behind Akira’s shoulders. “Makoto can get into a top university but can’t even wrap her hands right…” he shakes his head. “Honestly.”</p><p>Akira snorts a laugh into his drink. “Sorry, your sportness. Not all of us have been playing since we were shithead kids.”</p><p>That makes Mishima perk up slightly, leaning forward to take a sip of the water he’s still in <em>desperate</em> need of, even though they’d left the rink probably fifteen minutes ago. “How’d you guys get started in this stuff anyway? Roller derby isn’t super popular, right?”</p><p>Akira and Ryuji share an unreadable glance, faces twisting slightly. Mishima has always thought they shared a weird kind of telepathy, but now it makes him a little anxious, because he doesn’t know if he stepped out of line, somehow said the wrong thing. He sits back with an embarrassed flush. He <em>always</em> says the wrong thing.</p><p>“You wanna tell him first?” Akira asks with a head tilt.</p><p>Ryuji snorts and leans back in the booth, hand flexing on the back of the seat. He sighs. “Man, I guess.” Mishima fixes him with a questioning glance. It makes Ryuji rub at the back of his neck and laugh kind of shyly.</p><p>“I was, uh, a ‘shithead kid’ as Akira put it. Dealt with some family shit badly, kept getting into fights and shit when I was in junior high.” He glances uncomfortably at his drink. “Couple of friends of mine got roller skates instead of bikes for Christmas one year, and I found a pair in the trash, and it just… kind of started there. We used to skate around and get into shit—tag walls, break fences, terrorize skateparks.”</p><p>Mishima can feel his face tensing. He’d thought Ryuji seemed kind of… <em>rugged</em>, but he hadn’t expected the whole delinquent spiel. He nods, urging him along quietly.</p><p>“I don’t know. Eventually we found a derby league a bunch of high schoolers put together and started competing. I came home covered in bruises and shit, but I just told my ma I was on the track team.” He shrugs. “Injuries <em>were</em> mostly on my legs anyway. She ate it up till I was a third year. And then <em>freaked</em>.” He laughs fondly, like his mom’s panic is more of a sweet memory than it must have been at the time.</p><p>“Did she make you stop?” Mishima asks.</p><p>Ryuji shakes his head. “Nah, she was more pissed that I was lying than anything. But, then I said I was, uh, gonna go pro… without going to college.” He winces. “She ended up forcing me through applications, finishing school, the works. I wasn’t the <em>worst</em> student, but it probably wasn’t easy.” He leans onto his hand with a sigh. “I just wanted to keep skating. It was all I’d done for <em>years</em>, and suddenly all of that was out from under me so I could go to school. Eventually, I just figured I’d keep skating here until I got through school and could do whatever I wanted.” He leans over and nudges Akira with his shoulder. “And then I met this guy.”</p><p>Akira shoots him a smile that looks unbearably soft, all fondness and sweet affection in the pretty set of his mouth. It makes Mishima feel like an intruder, like seeing something he was never meant to see, so he shifts in his seat and says, “W-what about you Akira?”</p><p>Akira looks at him and shrugs. “Not much. I started derby in college, and met Ryuji there. I’ve only been playing for the last two or so years.”</p><p>“Oh,” Mishima says quietly. “I would have expected, I mean, since you’re the leader and all…”</p><p>Another shrug. “We don’t all have big stories. Sometimes it’s just a sport.” That gets a look from Ryuji that Mishima still can’t quite decipher, so he opts for changing the subject. “Thank for this, by the way,” He says quietly.</p><p>“For what?” Ryuji asks.</p><p>“Um,” Mishima says quietly, suddenly shy. “F-for helping me join the team. I know it’s probably a burden on you guys but—”</p><p>“You’re not a burden,” Akira interrupts, speaking quickly, and then snapping his mouth shut. He leans back in the booth with reddening cheeks, like he let his mouth get away from him. “You’re… everybody has to start somewhere. You’re not a burden.”</p><p>“Yeah!” Ryuji chirps, leaning across the table. “If anything, we’re lucky <em>you</em> wanna stick around! This’d be easier if we got you started at the <em>beginning</em> of the season, instead of right before championships, but you’re doing better than we thought you would, man!” He winces then. “Uh, no offence.”</p><p>“None taken,” Mishima says lightly. “Still, this, ah. It’ gave me something to do. A-and people to talk to. I was kind of lonely before,” he admits, with a quiet nervous laugh. It’s a struggle keeping the strain out of his voice, so Ryuji and Akira don’t think he’s a <em>complete</em> loser. “But, thanks. I won’t let you guys down.”</p><p>“We didn’t think you would!” Ryuji says brightly, and extends his hand in a fist.</p><p>Mishima stares at it for a moment, and then sees Ryuji nudge Akira with his shoulder again. He lifts his hand too. “We’re excited to see what you do,” Akira says quietly.</p><p>Mishima stares at their hands, and then their faces, Ryuji’s bright, sunshine grin and Akira’s more reserved smile, but he reaches out and bumps their knuckles together anyway, skin warm. “Thanks for having me,” he says with a smile.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The brick leg feeling is back. Now, though, it feels kind of feels <em>good</em>.</p><p>They’re inching closer to Mishima’s deadline, (he’s up to twenty-three in five, but he just can’t shave off the time for those few extra laps) but Akira and Ryuji are patient, if anything. Ryuji shows him how blockers move, how to stop big opponents and small ones, and Akira skates by his side and tries to break through Mishima’s defense but it feels… different now. Less like they’re trying to put him through a meat grinder and more like they’re trying to mold him into something beautiful.</p><p>He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, skimming clothed socks along the floor and watching the videos of Akira and Ryuji during bouts again. He wonders if there are any from when they started, so Mishima can get a sense of rookie Akira and Ryuji. <em>Shithead </em>Akira and Ryuji, in Akira’s words. Maybe they were like him at first. He wishes he’d started a little bit earlier, just so he could be as reliable as they need.</p><p>What he <em>needs</em> is his own weapon, his own skill, something that will make Akira look at him the way he looks at Ryuji. Or, uh, maybe not Ryuji, actually. Like another teammate. Yeah. He just wants to be another teammate.</p><p>“<em>Skull!”</em></p><p>
  <em>“I’m yours, Joker!”</em>
</p><p>Damn it. Mishima glances at his skates with a sigh. Back to practice.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>On Thursday, Ryuji gets a call from Mishima.</p><p>He’s sitting around on the couch at home, watching Akira poke at their half-broken TV while he tries (and fails) to work on an essay, before his phone rings at his side. He slaps around on the cushions until he finds it, and lifts it to his ear with a half shouted “Hello?”</p><p>“<em>Sakamoto-san?”</em> Comes the voice on the phone, as nervous and bright as Ryuji remembers it.</p><p>Ryuji shifts and slides further down on the couch, legs stretching further over the coffee table. Akira shoots him a look over his shoulder from the TV, a silent <em>Who’s that?</em></p><p><em>Mishima</em>, he mouths. “Yo! What’s up, dude?”</p><p>“<em>Um, are you busy right now? I don’t want to bother you.</em>”</p><p>Ryuji smiles and sets his laptop aside the moment with a laugh. “Trust me, dude, you’re sparing me. Also, since you called me, I assume this has something to do with skating?”</p><p>“<em>Y-yeah</em>,” Mishima says quietly, and Ryuji hears him shuffle around even from the other end. “<em>I, um, well I wanted to get some stuff before practice today? Just because I feel like I need some of my own supplies without borrowing from you guys all the time. I’m kind of in the middle of an athletics store right now.</em>”</p><p>Ryuji winces. “Yikes, I know how that feels. Lot of options.”</p><p>“<em>Yeah,”</em> Mishima says again. “<em>It’s a little… daunting.</em>”</p><p>“Nah, nah, I get you. Fire away, dude.” Akira stands up and lays over the length of the couch, head flopping against Ryuji’s hipbone. Mishima takes a deep breath.</p><p>It’s a struggle, walking Mishima through the necessities for the specific version of roller derby they play (<em>I mean, no one hasn’t </em>not <em>lost a tooth,</em> Ryuji says, when Mishima is looking at mouth guards) and Mishima frets, in a way Ryuji has come to realize is… semi-normal for him.</p><p>“<em>White or black?</em>” Mishima asks, and Ryuji can almost see him holding the two kneepads he was deliberating over up to his face.</p><p>“White or black?” Ryuji asks Akira.</p><p>“For Mishima?” Akira says, without opening his eyes. “Hm… white.”</p><p>“White,” Ryuji says into the receiver.</p><p>“<em>White, right! Thank you for the help.</em>”</p><p>“No problem!” Ryuji says, sliding fingers into Akira’s hair. “We’re always here if you need help. We’re your team, or, uh, we might be.” He laughs. “See you tonight?”</p><p>“<em>Yeah!”</em> Mishima says brightly, and Ryuji gets the strangely distinct feeling that Mishima’s enthusiasm is a little infectious. “<em>See you tonight.”</em></p><p>“What was that about?” Akira asks from his lap.</p><p>“He’s picking up pads and stuff. Seems kinda excited.”</p><p>“Really?” Akira says, blinking up at Ryuji’s face. “He’s more… enthusiastic than I thought. Would have expected him to give up by now.”</p><p>“Really?” Ryuji says, with a head tilt. He slides his fingers through Akira’s bangs and gives a laugh when Akira lets out a little purr. “He seems pretty strong. I’d be surprised if he <em>actually</em> gave up by now. Seems pretty serious.”</p><p>“He better be,” Akira huffs. “It’s a serious thing.”</p><p>“Relax,” Ryuji says, and leans down to press a kiss to Akira’s forehead. “Have a little faith, won’t you, starlight?”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Did you eat?” Ryuji shouts.</p><p>Mishima pauses mid lap. “Yes!”</p><p>“Mishima, did you <em>eat?</em>”</p><p>“<em>Yes!</em>”</p><p>“Are you lying?”</p><p>“…yes!”</p><p>“Jesus christ,” Ryuji sighs. Akira snickers into his shoulder. “Go get my keys.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“<em>Yuuki, you incel! I could have sworn your dumbass had died.</em>”</p><p>Mishima winces and flops back on his bed, nose twisting when he realizes he hasn’t showered and now his blankets probably smell like sweat. “Hi, Kazuko.”</p><p>“<em>Don’t ‘hi’ me! What the hell? You used to bother me every day!”</em></p><p>Mishima loves his siblings, he really does, but Kazuko is so <em>loud</em> and Mishima is covered in at least ten new bruises and a fine layer of sweat. “Sorry, been kind of busy! It’s been a crazy few days.”</p><p>In the little video of her on his phone, Kazuko’s thin eyebrow lift her eyes exaggeratedly wide with disbelief. “<em>Busy? Since when the hell are you busy?</em> <em>You’re not being extorted for money or anything right? I won’t tell mom and dad.”</em></p><p>Mishima huffs and rolls his eyes. “I’m not being extorted for money, Kazu. I’m… uh…” he glances down at the skates by the door and winces. “Promise not to tell mom and dad.”</p><p><em>“I literally just did!</em>”</p><p>“<em>Or</em> Mayumi.” He amends.</p><p>Kazuko’s lips part like she wants to say something, before they snap closed. “<em>It’s that serious, huh? Fine—no mom, no dad, and no terrifying big sister. Spill.</em>”</p><p>“I kind of… joined a roller derby team.”</p><p>“<em>What!?</em>”</p><p>“—not yet!” Mishima amends, hissing. “It’s not official yet, but I’m working on it. You <em>can’t</em> tell anyone, alright? Mayumi’ll kill me. Or remind me I need to be focusing on my studies, or whatever.”</p><p>“<em>No shit</em>,” Kazuko huffs.</p><p>“I <em>mean</em> it, Kazu. They’re already worried about me being out here on my own. They’ll think I’m having, like, a quarter life crisis. Not a word.”</p><p>“<em>When have I ever snitched on you, dumbass? Of course, I’m not going to tell.</em>”</p><p>“Good,” Mishima sighs. He glances off in the corner of his ceiling and then leans in conspiratorially. “It’s… I just don’t want to quit. It actually feels like they <em>need</em> me, and it’s giving me something to do! I’m learning a skill, and I’m actually making friends for once, and I don’t know what’ll happen if I give it up—”</p><p>“<em>I get it, I get it,</em>” Kazuko says, waving a hand. A little smile curls onto her face though, the beauty marks on her cheek squishing. “<em>I’m happy you </em>finally<em> seem to be having some fun at university. Now I can tell all my friends you’re not a boring loser.</em>”</p><p>“<em>Kazuko</em>,” Mishima whines, a hand coming up to cover his face.</p><p>Kazuko laughs loud and bright, and Mishima sighs. “<em>Joking. Kinda. But seriously! It’s nice you’re finally doing something you like.</em>”</p><p>Mishima can’t help but glance at the little pair of loaned skates again, the cats drawn on the side.</p><p>“It is,” he says happily. “It feels kind of good.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Akira glances down at the stopwatch in his hand, and then up at Mishima and Ryuji, side by side on the jammer line. “Mishima—"</p><p>“I can do it,” Mishima insists, strapping up in his kneepads. “I’m not… I don’t want to be useless. I’m <em>not</em> going to be useless.”</p><p>It’s the Friday of Mishima’s deadline, and Akira knows he’s probably going to come out of the other end just fine. But there’s a small part of him that knows even if he doesn’t… well. That’s a bridge they’ll cross when they come to it. <em>If</em> they come to it. He’s gotta have a little faith.</p><p>“Okay,” Akira says, leaning over the divider wall. “Don’t push yourself too hard. If you get hurt—”</p><p>“I’ll make it.” Mishima insists, sounding more confident than he looks.</p><p>“Okay,” Akira says again, and watches as Mishima stands, shooting Ryuji a grin when he ruffles his hair. He laughs at something Ryuji says quietly, and lifts his hand for a fist bump. Ryuji smiles and says something that looks like <em>once you’re finished</em>.</p><p>“Ready?” Akira calls from the sidelines.</p><p>“Ready!” Both Ryuji and Mishima shout. Ryuji isn’t necessarily their fastest skater, which is probably why he was interested in running laps with Mishima. Or maybe he’s just there for moral support. It makes Akira happy, seeing him take charge like that.</p><p>“Three, two, one—” The stopwatch starts with a beep. Mishima is off in blur.</p><p>Eleven seconds for each lap. That’s the max to hit all twenty-seven in five. Mishima and Ryuji start even but fast, skates whirring as they take the rink in circle after circle. Mishima’s face is set every time he whips past, breathing evenly. He looks good, and he’s making good time, Akira notes.</p><p>And then, somehow, he starts to pull ahead.</p><p>Akira can see it in the surprise set of Ryuji’s shoulders, the way he pushes himself harder as the small lead Mishima has on him inches just barely. It’s not a lot, but it <em>is</em> something, and Akira can see the muscle memory set in as Mishima skates, legs gliding easily as he pushes himself forward. He’s barely wobbling, skating faster and faster, and something like anticipation settles in Akira’s chest as Ryuji skates past with a surprised glance thrown Akira’s way.</p><p>Lap fifteen. Halfway through time.</p><p>Akira leans further over the wall, watching as Mishima pushes himself harder, faster, like the exhaustion is spurning him forward instead of making him stop. A full bout won’t last five minutes, but the twenty-seven isn’t <em>about</em> training for bouts, it’s about not losing your cool. Mishima hits another lap, and the next time he comes around, Akira can see he’s smiling.</p><p>“Holy shit,” Akira murmurs, glancing at the watch. Lap twenty. Three minutes even.</p><p>“You’re makin’ me look bad!” Akira hears Ryuji shout, and Mishima lets go of a laugh, body moving gracefully as he pumps his legs faster.</p><p>“Last lap?” Mishima wheezes, passing the start line again.</p><p>“Last lap!” Akira calls. He’s just <em>barely</em> hit four minutes. Akira knew he’d gotten better, but he didn’t know Mishima had made this much progress. Did he even realize how far he’d come?</p><p>He watches Mishima take the last lap like a comet, faster than any of his last routes, like now that he’s on the home stretch he can put his all into it. It makes Akira <em>burn</em>.</p><p>He hits the finish line with a wheeze, and Akira laughs as he collapses <em>immediately</em>, going down onto his knees and then his face, right there on the floor.</p><p>“Please tell me that was less than five minutes,” he wheezes.</p><p>Ryuji skates to Akira’s side and drops into a squat, a hand going out to pat Mishima on the head comforting. “What’s his time?” he asks, slightly winded.</p><p>Akira glances at the stopwatch with a smile. “Four minutes, eighteen seconds.”</p><p>“Yes!” Mishima shouts, fist dropping to the ground as he laughs. “Yes, yes, yes!”</p><p>“Congrats, man!” Ryuji shouts, clapping Mishima on the back. He groans, still laying face down.</p><p>Akira nudges Ryuji’s shoulder and jerks his head down at Mishima’s prone form. Ryuji’s face breaks into a smile.</p><p>“Hey,” Akira says, and flicks the top of Mishima in the head with a finger. He glances up and focuses on his and Ryuji’s fists, side by side. Akira watches his face pinch as his eyes go hot, before he pulls himself onto his knees and bumps their knuckles. “Welcome to The Thieves.”</p><p>Mishima looks sweaty and exhausted, and a little bit like he needs to have a lay down. He looks like a skater. Akira smiles.</p><p>“Thanks for having me,” Mishima says on a laugh.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading! Gimmie another uhhh little while for the next chapter, and come say hi on <a href="https://twitter.com/tobi_yos">regular twitter</a> while you're here! I talk about Ryuji a lot trust me its fun.</p><p>Laterzz</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mishima remembers how, when he first joined the team, Ryuji called Akira their star. He’s their point if orbit, as much as Ryuji is Akira’s, and Mishima… Mishima is a little out of alignment . He’s a moon to two stars. Cold, empty rock in the heat of two blazing comets.</p><p>What would it feel like if he slipped between them? If that was Ryuji’s arm on his shoulder, Akira’s head on his chest. He wonders if they’d hold him as tight as they hold each other.</p><p>He wonders if they’d touch him if they didn’t have to.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello again! I have no idea how I'm managing to finish these on schedule but here's another chapter! Excited to get to the next part of the story. :DD</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>9:42 AM</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Ann &gt; Soooo?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s in. &lt; Akira</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Haru &gt; He’s in?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ryuji &gt; he’s in!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Makoto &gt; I feel a little bad about being surprised</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Don’t be. It took Ryuji a month before he could manage his twenty-seven in five. &lt; Akira</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ryuji &gt; You are so mean to me, you know that?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Makoto &gt; So, I assume we’re a go for team practices now?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ryuji &gt; Aye aye! I’d give him a day off, though, just to process</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ryuji &gt; Maybe heal</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He hasn’t had a real break since he started &lt; Akira</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Makoto &gt; Alright. Akira, send him the schedule.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ann &gt; And Futaba?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ryuji &gt; All set</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Haru &gt; Good work everyone!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yeah. See you all Sunday &lt; Akira</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“You think he’ll be alright?” Ryuji asks, splayed out in the middle of their bed.</p><p>Akira shrugs and leans against the back of the door with a sigh. “He kind of has to be.”</p><p>Mishima’s presence on the team feels like a ticking time bomb. It’s <em>fine</em> on the surface, and really, he <em>is</em> picking up on things rather quickly, but skating laps doesn’t mean anything for playing in actual bouts. All he can kind of do is hope, and Akira has never been a man of particularly impressive faith.</p><p>“Come here,” Ryuji says gently, arms out. Akira sighs. He can see it in Ryuji’s eyes that he knows he’s too wrapped up in his own head, and the steps he takes towards the bed are like shrugging off all his stress, all his responsibilities, and folding into Ryuji’s arms is like coming home. “You worried?” Ryuji asks, arms going to wrap around Akira’s waist as he settles against his chest. Ryuji’s nose is tickling the crown of his head.</p><p>“Always,” Akira sighs. “Don’t know how this is gonna work out. It’s not like Mishima’s nota good person. Fun to be around.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah, but <em>good person</em> doesn’t mean good skater. What if he fucks up?”</p><p>“What if he does?” Ryuji says with a shrug, fingers carding through Akira’s hair. “What if he doesn’t? At this point, he can’t <em>hurt</em> the team.”</p><p>“I know,” Akira says into his chest. He presses his mouth closed, and sighs through his nose. “I don’t want to hurt his feelings, y’know? But if we’re <em>too</em> easy on him—”</p><p>“Akira,” Ryuji says, hands going to the sides of his boyfriend’s face. Akira tilts his chin up, humming when Ryuji presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Relax. We’ll work it out. Together, right?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Akira sighs, leaning in for another kiss. “Yeah, together.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Back at The Metaverse, once again.</p><p>Mishima has been to this building every day for the past two weeks, but there’s something… brighter about it now. It’s like he’s seeing it over again for the first time, even though he’s now armed with a pair of borrowed skates the distinct sense that he’s had his training wheels ripped away.</p><p>Well, that’s not fair. He feels like he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing is more like it. He didn’t think roller derby was going to be <em>easy</em>, but he also didn’t think he’d be constantly covered in bruises and toting roller skates to his class, so maybe this is just a testament to the way fate likes to fuck with him. He’s doing this for the Thieves, because <em>maybe</em> they need him, but they at least <em>want</em> him, and Mishima is nothing if not a dude who knows how to settle.</p><p><em>Kids free on Tuesdays!</em> The door says. <em>3 to 7 P.M. </em>he thinks.</p><p>Deep breath, open door.</p><p>… and more screaming. At least this is familiar.</p><p>“Let go! Let go!” Ryuji shouts.</p><p>“Tap out!” Ann hisses, an arm wrapped around his chest, legs trapping his thighs down. “You thought it’d be easy with my injuries! You forgot I have legs, bitch!”</p><p>Mishima shuffles up to Akira’s side and tugs on the edge of his shirt with a wince. “I thought that had been like… a onetime thing, before.”</p><p>Akira glances down at him, and then back at Ann and Ryuji, squawking and rolling on the floor. “Nah, this is how every practice starts.” He shoots Mishima a smile that makes him feel closer to jelly than person, face softening affectionately. “Glad you’re here.”</p><p>Mishima shuffles on his feet and holds his bag closer. “Didn’t, ah, didn’t have anywhere else to be,” he says with a short laugh, smiling when Akira ruffles his hair.</p><p>“Are you two done?” Makoto asks from the rink, bent over the wall with Haru at her side. “This is hardly what I meant when I suggested you get started stretching, Ryuji.”</p><p>“I’m gettin’ there!” Ryuji wheezes, caught in a one armed headlock. “Just—give me a minute.”</p><p>Akira pats Mishima on the shoulder and brushes past, headed towards the pile of limbs on the floor. “Give it up—we’ve got practice.”</p><p>“Fine!” Ryuji breathes, and coughs when Ann lets go of his throat. “Getting choked out isn’t nearly as sexy when it’s Ann doing it,” he grumbles, letting Akira pull him into standing with a shake of his head. Mishima makes a half-choked noise and sets his bag down on one of the nearby tables to dig his skates out.</p><p>“Quit that,” Makoto sighs, leaning onto her arms. “We’ve got work to do.”</p><p>There’s stretching, warm-ups, Ann gives a hoot when she sees Mishima laced up in her old skates, and everyone gathers around a table as Makoto stands armed with a tablet and a frown.</p><p>She clears her throat, and the miscellaneous conversation dies down for weighted focus. “Mishima’s addition is going to change some of our dynamics. We don’t have our hammer, which means breaking through walls is going to be difficult without the extra power.” She glances at Mishima and he ducks his head with a flush, feeling a bit like he wants to disappear into the floor. She taps a few things on the tablet. “Akira and Ryuji have told me a bit about your skillsets, strengths, and weaknesses, as well as the exponential progress you’ve made.” She sets her tablet down with a jolt that makes Mishima jump, and Makoto fixes them all with a hard stare. “That doesn’t mean shit if we don’t figure out how you play with <em>us</em>.”</p><p>Ryuji throws an arm around Mishima’s shoulder that makes him jump. “Welcome to the shark tank, dude,” he says quietly. “You’re Makoto’s chum.”</p><p>Makoto clears her throat loudly. “We’re splitting up into groups to see how Mishima functions among small numbers,” she glances at Akira, who nods at her side. “Three to a team, pick a jammer, know your blockers. Make your wall.”</p><p>Mishima glances around with a frown. “Um, Makoto?” he says, and tries not to wince when her cool stare falls on him. “Ann’s not supposed to be skating though, right? That means there’s only five of us.”</p><p>Makoto sighs. “I was afraid you’d bring that up. It’s as good as summoning her—”</p><p>“<em>Helloooooo?”</em></p><p>Mishima jumps when the front door bangs open and then stares as a redhead comes bounding past the skate desk armed with a black tote bag and a grin, stopping to pose as Haru giggles quietly. “Did someone call for Derby Queen Alibaba?” she asks, righting crooked glasses.</p><p>“Hey, cutie pie!” Ann giggles from the bench.</p><p>Mishima blinks when the door opens again, and literally the tallest person Mishima has seen in probably months slips in behind the redhead with a grunt. She jerks her finger behind her with a snort. “Yusuke is here too, I guess.”</p><p>“Good evening,” the tall guy greets, following the redhead towards where everyone is sitting.</p><p>Makoto sighs. “Mishima, Futaba Sakura and Yusuke Kitagawa. Our pseudo coach, eyes of The Theives, and her shadow.”</p><p>“I prefer PR manager,” Yusuke says pleasantly, sitting at one of the booths nearby. Mishima watches as he pulls out a small sketchbook from the bookbag on his hip, and then sets a camera down on the table in front of him. “Photographer would also be apt.”</p><p>“Call me Oracle!” Futaba declares, and stoops down to offer Mishima a handshake. “Actually, just call me Futaba.”</p><p>“N-nice to meet you,” Mishima stutters out.</p><p>Futaba is cute in a wiry kind of way, like a lightning rod. She’d bundled up in a big, neon green sweatshirt, and she also looks like she’s literally <em>vibrating</em> with energy. Mishima watches her dig around in her bag and pull out a pair of bright green skates with a smile, before she drops into the seat at Makoto’s side and begins lacing up.</p><p>“Back to buisness,” Makoto says, and clears her throat. Mishima can’t help notice how fast Futaba’s fingers move as she’s lacing up, clearly well practiced. “We’ll be switching teams around every practice before the match, but we’re not exactly going for finesse right now, not with one of our players as green as he is. We’ll make teams at the beginning of each practice for the next week, and that will be your pack until you’re assigned a new one.”</p><p>“Can I ask a question?” Mishima squeaks. He wilts a bit when all eyes turn to him. “Um, you called me in because you needed an extra skater, but it seems like Futaba can skate just fine. Why do you need me when you’ve got five players? Not that I mind!”</p><p>“Easy,” Akira sigh.</p><p>Futaba cackles loudly. “It’s because I don’t want to!”</p><p>Ryuji bumps his and Mishima’s shoulders together and angles his head in Futaba’s direction. “Futaba doesn’t like the attention on us when we skate, so she likes to keep to the background. Plus, she’s not super keen on keeping to regular practice either.”</p><p>“I do it for fun,” Futaba elaborates, standing easily on her skates, her glasses getting folded down onto the table. “I’m better at coming up with the routines than sticking to them, anyway, and sometimes I just don’t want to show up for practices!”</p><p>“Futaba would have taken over if you hadn’t have come along,” Haru chirps.</p><p>“Oh,” Mishima says quietly, glancing at his knees. Maybe the thieves really <em>didn’t</em> need him that badly, then. Futaba seems perfectly capable, and they probably wouldn’t have had any problems if they’d had <em>her</em> on the team—</p><p>“Hey,” Ryuji says quietly, and Mishima startles to look at him. “We’re glad you’re here anyway, man,” he whispers. “The team was down bad with the same old routine. We obviously needed something to switch up with or we’d keep losing. Don’t get down on yourself, yeah?”</p><p>Mishima blinks wide eyes up at him, before a little bit of the tension in his chest eases away. He bumps their shoulders back. “Right.”</p><p>“Don’t think I didn’t catch that little jab, Ryuji Sakamoto,” Ann hisses. Ryuji sticks out his tongue.</p><p>Mishima says with a smile. “Thanks.”</p><p>“Now that Futaba is here, we can start,” Makoto says, and Mishima lets himself look at Ryuji for one more second before he turns to her. He’s grateful, more than he can really say. Ryuji is better at reading people than Mishima thought. He’s glad he’s here. “Today, we’re going for unfamiliar and unknown. Mishima, you’re with Akira and I. Haru, Ryuji, and Futaba, I want you together.”</p><p>“Alright!” Futaba shouts.</p><p>“Sounds good to me!”</p><p>“Excited to work with you two!”</p><p>Akira shoots him a smile. Makoto sets her tablet down on the bench and tugs at her wrist guards with a snap. “Thieves, let’s skate.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Mishima is wholly unprepared for this practice bout.</p><p>He’d thought, with their so called “hard hitter” benched, things might have been a little more smooth sailing. What he wasn’t prepared for is the way Makoto and Haru clash, hard enough that Mishima swears he can hear their bones grinding. If <em>that</em> is what the <em>normal</em> blockers are like, he’s a little grateful Ann is benched.</p><p>Makoto checks <em>hard</em> and Haru skates fast, never apologizing when she sends Futaba flying against the walls. Their temporary jammers are appointed to Ryuji and Akira, so Mishima sticks to Akira’s side, doing his best to fight off the one-man wall Haru tries to impose from time to time. He’s lucky they’ve got Makoto on their side, because Ryuji is <em>fast</em>, and if Makoto wasn’t so solid, their win margin would probably much steeper.</p><p>They’re pulling absolutely no punches, and Mishima should expect it by now, but when Ryuji catches him in the nose with an elbow, his chest squeezes tight as the air leaves his lungs. It <em>hurts</em>, and Mishima wants to do what he’s always done, and quit, quit, quit, go back to his room and curl up in his bed, and wonder why nobody likes him.</p><p>“Get up!” Akira snaps, skating past him, and Mishima takes the hand Makoto offers when he skates by. <em>Don’t fall</em>. Akira said to him once.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>Mishima gets up, and wipes the blood off on the collar of his shirt. Derby is going to send his laundry expenses through the roof.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Ann is taking score on the sidelines on a little stand outfitted with red and black numbers, very clearly cheering for team Futaba-Ryuji-Haru. Mishima can’t blame her. He’s barely holding his own.</p><p>“How are you doing?” Akira asks quietly.</p><p>“Um,” Mishima pants, hands going to his knees. <em>Fucking exhausted</em>. “Great,” he lies.</p><p>Akira places a knowing hand on his back. “How many jams are we doing, Makoto?”</p><p>“For today?” Makoto says, face pinching as she glances at the floor. “It would be good if we could do around forty, but considering how new Mishima is, maybe… twenty-five? Thirty?”</p><p>“How many have we done?” Mishima wheezes.</p><p>“Fifteen!” Haru says brightly. Makoto backs her up with a nod.</p><p>Mishima groans.</p><p>“Five more and we break,” Akira insists, and Mishima feels his hand slide lower comfortingly. It’s just at the curve of his spine now, warm and probably gross because of Mishima’s sweat, but he appreciates the touch anyway, sending Akira a grateful little smile. “We can finish the last ten and do some strength training.” There’s nods and agreements, and a very clear groan from Ryuji.</p><p>“Ready?” Ann calls.</p><p>“Ready,” Mishima shouts, and tries not to shiver when Akira’s hand falls away.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Great first practice man!” Ryuji says, sliding onto the bench besides Mishima. He, thankfully, looks about as sweaty as Mishima feels, face shiny and hair damp against his forehead.</p><p>“Thanks,” Mishima says, when he finally stops chugging water desperately. He winces when his hand bumps the bench under him, and then says a little prayer Ryuji won’t call him on it.</p><p>“Woah, man! Your hand looks kinda gnarly. Did you get hurt?”</p><p>Shit.</p><p>Mishima huffs out a dry laugh, leaning forward onto his knees with his good hand. “I don’t think there’s a single part of my body I <em>didn’t</em> hurt, if I’m honest.” He curls his hand into a fist and feels the two bad fingers he’d jammed on a fall twinge with pain. “I’ll be fine. I just need a minute.”</p><p>“You <em>need</em> to wrap those,” Ryuji says gently, glancing over his shoulder. “Hey, ‘taba! Toss me the wrap!”</p><p>“The one for fingers or knees?” she shouts back.</p><p>“Fingers!”</p><p>Mishima watches as Futaba digs around in a gigantic bag, before a roll of white looking tape comes sailing their way, snatched out of the air as Ryuji stands. “Thanks!” he turns back to Mishima and makes a gesture that Mishima can’t really read into. “Legs,” he says, and Mishima tilts his head to the side with a questioning noise.</p><p>Ryuji sighs and drops into a squat, both hands going to Mishima’s legs to pry his knees apart, and Mishima’s face <em>explodes</em>, going so hot he could probably give the sun a run for its money. Ryuji doesn’t look bothered in the slightest, quietly reaching out to take Mishima’s hand and then sitting back on his heels, face pinched as he rotates the injury.</p><p>“’s not broken,” Ryuji murmurs, and Mishima swallows a panicked little noise. He’s never noticed how long Ryuji’s eyelashes are, dark where the rest of his hair is bright golden. “I’m gonna tape your fingers together okay? Try not to do too much with them before next practice.”</p><p>Again, Mishima nods, not quite trusting his voice.</p><p>Ryuji works diligently, pressing Mishima’s worse looking finger to the other, middle and index pressed together.</p><p>“You’re, um, really good at this,” Mishima says quietly.</p><p>“Yeah?” Ryuji says, hands still working as he winds the tape around the alarming curve in Mishima’s fingers. “You get hurt enough, you kinda learn how to keep from making injuries even worse.” He glances up at Mishima through his eyelashes, and Mishima’s heart kicks into overdrive, mouth twitching with the urge to say something stupid, like <em>you have really pretty eyes.</em> “Is that better?” he asks, and Mishima realizes he’s finished, and is letting Mishima rest his hand loose in his palm. It’s all Mishima can do to swallow around a dry throat. His hand is small in Ryuji’s, a little paler against his skin.</p><p>Ryuji shifts on his knees. “Mishima?”</p><p>“Yeah! Yes,” Mishima yelps, pulling his hand back. “It’s… it’s better. Thank you.”</p><p>“No problem,” Ryuji says happily, reaching up to flick Mishima in the forehead. It startles a tense laugh out of him, hand going up to cover his mouth when he lets out an ungraceful little snort.</p><p>Ryuji beams and crawls onto the bench next to him, and Mishima tries not to stare at his eyelashes, or his hands, or the little bit of his chest that peaks out from the cuts in his tank top. “Other than the injuries,” Ryuji asks. “You doin’ okay?”</p><p>“I don’t want to say this is harder than I thought it would be, but…”</p><p>“It’s a lot, I know,” Ryuji says, and pats Mishima’s shoulder. He pulls his hand away with a little wrinkle in his nose Mishima thinks looks a little childish on him. It’s kind of cute. Ryuji is kind of cute. “Dude, you are like. <em>Damp</em>.”</p><p>“Y-yeah,” Mishima stutters out, taken off guard by his own brain. <em>What the hell?</em> “I’m, uh, going to get some seriously dirty looks on the train back to the dorms.”</p><p>Ryuji blinks. “Do you want me to drive you home?”</p><p> “N-no, it’s fine! I don’t want to impose, it’s really not that big a deal—”</p><p>“Dude,” Ryuji says, and leans forward, a hand on Mishima’s knee. It makes him feel strangely warm, confronted with Ryuji’s proximity and the genuine look in his eyes. “It’s not that big a deal. Plus, Akira ‘n I were going to grab food before we head home anyway, ‘cause we’re low on groceries.”</p><p>Right, Akira. Mishima’s brain does a little reboot at the reminder that, um, hello, Ryuji is <em>very</em> much taken, and Mishima shouldn’t be ogling his captain’s boyfriend. Even if he does have really nice hands. That’s Akira’s job—cool, tall, athletic Akira.</p><p>“I figure I should probably go home,” Mishima says quietly. “I’d like to, but…”</p><p>Ryuji’s hand slips away from his knee, and Mishima swallows around a tight throat. When Ryuji smiles, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s chill, man! We totally get ‘ya. I can still drive you home though, if you want.”</p><p>Mishima should say no. He should tell Ryuji that he’s sweet, and out of his league, and that Mishima is a horrible person for getting all fawny over one of his teammate’s partners, but for some reason, he just… can’t. Doesn’t want to.</p><p>Ryuji blinks long eyelashes, and pulls a pink lip between his lip, and Mishima folds like a house of cards.</p><p>“If you’re sure,” he says quietly, and watches Ryuji’s face break into a gigantic grin. It makes his breath short, chest clenching painfully. “I, uh, actually wouldn’t mind dinner that much either.”</p><p>“Hell yeah, bro! What do you want to eat? We did ramen last time, ‘n Akira never wants to eat the same thing two times in a row—”</p><p>“We talkin’ about dinner?” Akira says, skating over to lean against the wall. “No ramen,” He says flatly. Mishima laughs.</p><p>“C’mon, dude! What if Mishima wants ramen?” Ryuji whines, and throws Akira a half pout that makes Mishima snort again.</p><p>“Don’t put this on him,” Akira says. “We are not getting ramen again. It’s my turn to pick.”</p><p>“But <em>baaaaabe,”</em> Ryuji whines. Mishima feels a hand on his neck that pulls him down so Ryuji can rub their cheeks together, voice high and pleading. “Look at this poor, skinny young man. It’s our job as the leaders of the thieves to make sure he’s eating right!”</p><p>“Then we’ll take him to eat,” Akira insists, and Mishima squirms a bit in Ryuji’s hold. “He’ll still be here. We’ve got plenty of time to take him to your little ramen place.</p><p>“I wouldn’t, um,” Mishima says quietly, jumping when both pairs of eyes land on him. “I wouldn’t mind? Uh, ramen. At some point.”</p><p>“Yes!” Ryuji says, pumping his fist. He knocks their shoulders together. “It’s a date, man.”</p><p>Mishima flushes and sputters.</p><p>“He said at some point, Ryu,” Akira corrects, and starts to make his way back out of the rink. “We’re still taking him somewhere else for dinner.”</p><p>“Boo!” Ryuji shouts, and leans back to climb to sock clad feet, trailing after Akira as he climbs out of the rink.</p><p>Mishima buries his hands in his face. He’s so fucked.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“So, um,” Mishima starts, leaning forward between the two front seats. Ryuji makes a noise like he’s listening without looking away from the road, and Akira turns in the passenger’s seat, face lit up by the streetlights as Ryuji drives down an empty road. “Is… that it? For practice, I mean.”</p><p>Akira’s face scrunches. “For practice?”</p><p>Mishima nods. “Like, is it just the team stuff now? I assume you guys think I’m as caught up as I can be—”</p><p>“Oh, no way,” Ryuji snorts, a glance thrown over his shoulder as he rolls to a stop. “You’re not <em>quite</em> caught up, yet. We’re still going to take you for individual practice now, we probably just don’t need to go every day.”</p><p>“Group practices are Wednesday’s and Sunday’s, right?”</p><p>Akira nods, and then leans a bit closer, eyes narrowing. “Usually, yeah. Unless we’ve got a game. We’re throwing in one last Friday practice this week too so you’ve got a bit more practice. Hey, how long has it been since you cut your hair?”</p><p>Mishima blanches, reaching up to tug at the end of a choppy bang. “A-a while, I guess. Been kind of busy.” He laughs. “Should I… cut it?”</p><p>“Nah,” Akira says quietly, reaching back with a hand. Mishima is expecting one a hair ruffle, but instead, Akira just tucks a bit of his hair behind his ear gently. “It looks good,” he murmurs, like it’s not really meant for anyone else to hear.</p><p>The touch is innocuous enough, but it still makes Mishima shiver, eyes going wide as he takes in Akira’s similarly surprised look. He clears his throat. “I—um. It’s just that… your bangs are getting long, and I know how hard it is to go through matches like that. So.” Mishima watches his face turn pink as he rambles, before Akira clears his throat again and whips back around. “That’s all. Might want to… invest in a headband, is all.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Mishima says quietly, leaning forward. He reaches up and tugs at the bit of hair Akira touched with a smile. “I’ll look into it.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Mishima spends his first night in his dorms since he started derby, and he kind of hates it.</p><p>A week ago, he would have been in the middle of The Metaverse’s rink, trying to avoid a hip check from Akira or sweating through conditioning with Ryuji. As is, he’s working on homework in headphones at his desk, feeling like he’s got a whole empty, <em>boring</em> night stretched out in front of him.</p><p>He’d gone skating earlier in the day—around campus, like usual—but that wasn’t the <em>same</em>. There wasn’t Ryuji’s shouting, or Akira’s barked commands, no neon lighting and lemon cleaning solution. It’s nearly eleven, and way too dark out to be skating, but Mishima glances at his shoes anyway, wondering if he could take a few laps around the outside of his dorm building to get the itch out of his skin.</p><p>He jumps when his phone buzzes, only to realize it’s a text from Akira.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>10:31 P.M.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Akira &gt; You’re resting, right? </em>
</p><p>Mishima sits back in his chair guiltily. Busted.</p><p>
  <strong>10:31 P.M.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Of course! I shouldn’t be doing extra work, right? &gt; Mishima</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Akira &gt; Nah</em>
</p><p>Akira &gt; <em>Resting is important.</em></p><p>He waits for a bit, wondering if Akira is going to send any other message, and is about to set his phone back down when it vibrates again.</p><p>
  <strong>10:33 P.M.</strong>
</p><p>Akira &gt; <em>What are you doing right now</em>?</p><p>Oh, well that’s a surprise. Akira rarely texts him about things that don’t pertain to practice or the team.</p><p>
  <strong>10:33 P.M.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Just catching up with some homework, haha. I’ve been so busy lately I kind of forgot I was in school. &gt; Mishima</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Akira &gt; Mishima</em>
</p><p><em>Wow.</em> Mishima can actually hear the disappointment even over text. It’s kind of impressive.</p><p>Akira &gt; <em>The Thieves aren’t gonna make you drop out, right?</em></p><p><em>Of course not!</em> <em>Sorry, that’s not how I meant for that to sound. I’m actually just getting ahead because I’m restless. Still going strong with my studies! &gt; Mishima</em></p><p>
  <em>Akira &gt; That’s good. I guess I should let you go, huh?</em>
</p><p>Mishima glances at his textbook, and then his bed, and shuts the textbook without a thought, moving to flop onto his bed with his phone over his face.</p><p>
  <strong>10:35 P.M.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>I can take a break! &gt; Mishima </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Akira&gt; Oh, okay. </em>
</p><p>There’s a bit of typing from Akira that starts and stops haltingly, and then another text that comes in.</p><p>
  <strong>10:36 P.M.</strong>
</p><p>Akira &gt; <em>Can I call you? </em></p><p><em>Akira&gt; Ryuji is playing Smash and I don’t have anybody to talk to</em>.</p><p>That makes Mishima laugh out loud, rolling onto his stomach.</p><p>
  <strong>10:37 P.M.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Go for it. &gt; Mishima</em>
</p><p>It takes a few seconds and then his phone is ringing, Mishima going to pick up without hesitation.</p><p><em>“Hey</em>,” Akira says.</p><p>“Hi,” Mishima says back.</p><p>“<em>Who is that?</em>” comes over the phone as well, a little further away. Mishima laughs when he realizes it’s Ryuji.</p><p>“<em>Mishima</em>,” Akira says back, and Mishima can’t help but laugh again when he hears Ryuji gasp.</p><p>“<em>Gimmie! Gimmie, gimmie!”</em></p><p>There’s a bit of shuffling on the other side of the line, before Mishima hears a bit of tapping and a half shouted, “<em>Hello?!”</em></p><p>“Hi,” Mishima laughs, leaning his head onto his hands. “How’s the game going?”</p><p>“<em>Badly!</em>” Ryuji yells. “<em>Did Akira call you to bitch about taking a rest day?”</em></p><p>“<em>I was not bitching—"</em></p><p><em>“He was totally bitchin’,</em>” Ryuji whispers conspiratorially into the phone. “<em>He complains every time we take a rest day because he doesn’t know what to do when he’s not in the rink. It’s like trying to get a toddler to go to sleep after you give ‘em an energy drink.</em>”</p><p>“Ah,” Mishima says. “I kind of get that. I was feeling a little like I should have been out practicing too. I’m glad I’m not the only one.”</p><p>“<em>Busybodies, the both of ya,”</em> Ryuji says, and then grunts. “<em>Aw, hell. Hold on, I’m handing you back before I get my ass kicked.</em>”</p><p>Mishima waits for the phone to get passed around again before Akira sighs into the phone. “<em>Sorry, I, uh, had a feeling you might have been feeling the same as me right now.”</em></p><p>Mishima hums. “It’s the change in schedule, I think? You got me used to running around all the time at night and now I don’t know what to do when that’s not happening.”</p><p>“<em>Sorry</em>,” Akira says. “<em>We can… um. Do some extra practice tomorrow, if you want? More blocker training.</em>”</p><p>“I’d like that,” Mishima admits, staring up at his ceiling. <em>Something to do</em>, he thinks, he likes having something to do.</p><p><em>“Fuck!</em>” he hears Ryuji shout, and then groan. Mishima laughs.</p><p>“<em>You wouldn’t have any Smash tips, would you? Before Ryuji breaks another one of our switch controllers.”</em></p><p>“Actually,” Mishima says with a smile. “Hand him the phone. I’ve got a couple of ideas.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Mishima wakes up with a groan, peeling his face away from the edge digging into his skin uncomfortably. It’s warm, and smooth, and he realizes with a jolt he slept on his phone, remaining pitch black when he tries to turn it on. Looks like the battery is drained.</p><p>He rolls over the plug it in and sits up to scratch at his stomach under his t-shirt before he manages to remember <em>why</em> he slept on his phone.</p><p>Ryuji had managed to kick Akira’s ass at smash with Mishima’s pointers, and they’d been talking about Mishima’s classwork and then… nothing.</p><p><em>Oh shit</em>, he realizes, sitting up with a gasp. He must have fallen asleep in the middle of their conversation. He frantically turns his phone on and opens up his messages with Akira again, ready to shoot off an apology when he realizes there’s an unread message waiting for him.</p><p>
  <strong>2:09 A.M.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Glad you’re getting some rest. We’ll see you at practice tonight? Eat a good breakfast &gt; Akira</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Also you snore in your sleep. It’s kind of cute. &gt; Akira</em>
</p><p>Mishima reads through the messages a solid four times before they actually set in, and then he’s burying his face in his pillows and screaming.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Mishima is stood in an aisle of a convenience store, staring at a small display of cheap headbands. He’d been intent on coming in to get an energy drink before he started on a paper, but the headbands had been hung from the side of the isle like a little beacon, and Akira’s voice echoes in his head.</p><p>He touches the edge of a bang with careful fingers, tucking them back behind his ear the way Akira did. He’d looked… nice, like that. It had been hard to see in the dark but Mishima remembers how his face had softened a bit, his fingers just barely brushing Mishima’s skin—</p><p>“Mishima?”</p><p>Mishima jumps, whipping around to find Makoto standing at the end of the isle, dressed eerily similarly to the way she does when they have practice. Tights and a sweatshirt, hair pulled back instead of in braids for once. And, he notices, a solid black headband.</p><p>“Oh!” he says brightly, a hand going to his rapidly beating heart. Maybe he’d been too wrapped up in his own head. “Hi, Makoto.”</p><p>“Funny running into you here,” she says pleasantly, a polite little smile coming onto her face. She walks down the aisle towards him and Mishima glances at her basket, snorting internally when he notices that she stacks her groceries like blocks so they all fit snuggly.</p><p>“Small world,” Mishima offers, with a grin. “Are you… um, going to exercise?”</p><p>“Huh?” Makoto says, eyes widening, before she glances down at her clothes and then away with a flush. “Oh, um, yes, actually. With Haru. She gets my assistance with strength training.”</p><p>“That’s nice!” Mishima says. “You look cute!” They lock eyes then, and Mishima realizes what he’s said with a jolt, face flaming red. He laughs, too loud, and Makoto turns pinker, shrinking in on herself. “S-sorry, I didn’t mean that like… um… I mean, I’m sure Haru appreciates it—”</p><p>“Thank you,” Makoto cuts in, still not looking at him. “It’s… nothing, really.”</p><p>“Right,” Mishima says, wincing when they lapse into tense silence. He glances back at the headbands, and then at Makoto’s own one on her head. “Hey, um. You wouldn’t happen to know what kind of headband would be good for keeping hair out of my face, would you? If they’re… even are types,” he amends, laughing awkwardly.</p><p>“I think it’s more of a style thing,” Makoto says, looking grateful for the change in subject. She glances at Mishima’s hair and then at the flimsy looking headbands. “Why the sudden intrest in headbands? You could just cut your hair.”</p><p>“Ah,” Mishima laughs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It wasn’t really bothering me much until Akira said something at dinner the other night. I, um,” he reaches up to touch his hair again. “I’m thinking about keeping it this length for a little while.”</p><p><em>I like it</em>, Akira had said. Maybe Mishima shouldn’t be basing his hairstyle choices on the opinions of cute boys.</p><p>Makoto tips her head to the side with a frown, face scrunching like she’s unhappy. “At dinner?”</p><p>“Yeah, um, sometimes Ryuji and Akira take me to get food after individual practice. I have a habit of forgetting to eat,” he says with a laugh that dies quickly when Makoto’s face doesn’t change.</p><p>“Akira and Ryuji…” she says tensely, before her mouth warps into a tight smile. “Well, that’s nice. Don’t forget to eat though, alright? All your practice means nothing if you just throw it away for… frivolities.”</p><p>“Got it,” Mishima says with a smile, glancing back at the headbands. “Red, blue, or yellow, you think?”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Akira wakes up with a groan on the couch in the metaverse breakroom, blinking against the ugly fluorescent lights and nearly rolling straight off of the too small blue couch. He’d started feeling poor within the last hour of his shift, and had left it to Lavenza to watch the place while he went to take an Advil and lay down. He guesses he feel asleep.</p><p>“Fuck,” he groans, rolling over to grab for his phone on the floor. “What time is it?”</p><p>Oh. It’s an hour past closing.</p><p><em>Oh</em>. Ohh shit.</p><p>He slides off of his couch and unlocks his phone hurriedly. He was supposed to lock up at nine and let Ryuji and Mishima in for practice at nine-thirty, and now it’s ten and…</p><p>At least he doesn’t have any panicked messages from Ryuji or Mishima. Or, maybe that’s a problem. It’s kind of difficult to get his brain in working order.</p><p>Blearily he makes his way to the breakroom door, before he hears… music?</p><p>It’s not the regular fair for The Metaverse’s approved list of songs—though sometimes Akira gets tired of the weird operatics and classical music and he commandeers the speakers for a day of pop music instead—but this is… light and upbeat. He hears someone laugh, and then a squeal, and pushes out of the door to Ryuji and Mishima, skating around in circles and giggling to themselves.</p><p>They’re both red-faced, grinning from ear to ear and stumbling around in circles as the music plays. Ryuji laughs when Mishima trips, and nearly lifts him off his feet when he spins him around, pulling him back to the beat of the song.</p><p>It’s… kind of sweet. Mishima stumbles again and steadies himself with hands on Ryuji’s chest, and Akira just leans against the doorframe and watches, taking in Ryuji’s hand on Mishima’s waist and the way he has to dip his head slightly to keep bright eyes fixed on Mishima’s face. They look good together, all yellow and blue, and Akira notices with a jolt that Mishima is wearing a bright yellow headband that matches the color of Ryuji’s hair.</p><p>“Akira!” Mishima shouts over the music, and Akira realizes he’s been caught, lifting his hand with a smile.</p><p>“You two got in here alright?” he asks, taking a few steps forward to slide up against the outside of the rink, leaning his elbows onto the divider wall.</p><p>“Lavenza let us in!” Ryuji calls, still skating Mishima in slow circles to the beat. “She said Mishima was <em>cuuute</em>,” he coos, eyebrows waggling obnoxiously as Mishima flushes and tucks his face into Ryuji’s chest.</p><p><em>Huh</em>. Akira thinks, when a little flash of irritation flares up in his chest. <em>That’s weird.</em> It doesn’t make him feel like that when <em>Ryuji</em> calls Mishima cute. Or, it hasn’t yet, at least. He’ll… unpack that later.</p><p>“She’s got good taste,” he says, instead of commenting on how strangely uncomfortable that makes him feel. “You guys ready for practice?”</p><p>“Nope!” Ryuji sings. “Come dance with us!”</p><p>Akira glances down at his socked feet, and then up at his boyfriend. “I’m not wearing skates!” he calls, watching Ryuji spin Mishima in a giggly circle.</p><p>“Come on, Akira!” Mishima yells, head tipping back when Ryuji lowers him in a shaky dip. His eyes look nearly golden in the neon.</p><p>Akira glances at him and then back at the breakroom where his skates are waiting.</p><p><em>Fuck it</em>, he thinks, sliding out into the rink with socks. Who is he to say no?</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Mishima is barely three words into his stats project when Akira calls. He doesn’t look at his phone, slapping around on his desk before the hit lands, and sets it to speaker with a huff.</p><p>“Hello—”</p><p>“<em>Mishima!”</em> Ryuji yells. Mishima holds the phone away from his ear with a wince, thinking back to how Akira had mentioned that Ryuji <em>was</em> on his phone more often than not. “<em>What are you up to right now, man?</em>”</p><p>“Homework,” Mishima sighs, deleting the graph he’s managed to fuck up a <em>third</em> time. “You and Akira staying in?”</p><p>“<em>Nope!</em>” Ryuji yells, and Mishima narrows his eyes at the call screen when he hears Akira snickering in the background.</p><p>“What are you—”</p><p>“Are you in your dorm right now?” Akira asks, voice coming across slightly muffled from the distance.</p><p>“Um… yes?” Mishima says, picking up his phone with a hand. “Why?”</p><p>“<em>Come outsiiiide,”</em> Ryuji singsongs.</p><p>Mishima blinks down at his phone, and then his homework, and them back at his phone. “You’re joking.”</p><p><em>“Don’t make us waste gas,”</em> Akira says, too calmly.</p><p>“We’ve got snacks!” Ryuji chirps.</p><p>Mishima buries his face in his hands with a groan, and then stands, grabbing his jacket off of the back of his chair and the lanyard with his key from the desk. “I’m coming,” he grumbles, met with a whoop from Ryuji.</p><p>He takes the stairs down and out of the dorm two at a time, listening to Ryuji and Akira chatter at each other over the line as he pulls his jacket on over his clothes.</p><p>When he breaks past the front door and spots the blue of Ryuji’s car, he can’t help but laugh, slinking up to the window where Ryuji’s wide-eyed grin is waiting. “Hey hot stuff,” he purrs, window rolled down.</p><p>Mishima laughs, glancing at Akira in the passenger’s seat. “What are you guys doing here?” he asks.</p><p>Ryuji points his thumb in Akira’s direction, who shoots Mishima a grin. “Akira saw there was a meteor shower tonight! We’re gettin’ out of the city to check it out. You in or not?”</p><p>“Again,” Akira says, lifting a translucent plastic bag. “I have snacks.”</p><p>Mishima blinks, and stares, and then blinks some more. He’s never had friends who could just… come meet him like this. He was wholly prepared to have another lonely night in, waiting for the next time he got to go to derby practice, but Ryuji and Akira are just… inviting him out? Like that?</p><p>“I’m in,” he says with a smile, and reaches for the back door when Ryuji pops the lock.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Ryuji drives them about forty minutes out, stopping on a hill that overlooks the city below, the sky perfectly unobscured and twinkling with stars.</p><p>“It’s easier to see out here without the light pollution,” Akira explains, helping Mishima out of the backseat with a warm hand. It’s getting colder as the weather starts to tip headfirst into winter, and Mishima shivers in his light jacket as Ryuji climbs on top of his car, laughing when Akira slips on his way up and goes sliding down the rear windshield. Mishima makes his home on the trunk and takes snacks when they’re offered, laughing as Ryuji tries to force his way through eating the hot chips Akira bought.</p><p>“You don’t even like spicy food,” Akira snickers, going to snatch the bag back.</p><p>“It’s about the principle,” Ryuji sniffs, keeping the bag just out of reach. “What kind of man am I if I can’t eat these?”</p><p>“They can’t be that bad,” Mishima says, and shimmies onto his knees so he can reach up and pluck one of the chips out of the bag. He realizes he’s made a horrible mistake the second the chip touches his tongue, eyes watering as he chews. “Actually…” he wheezes.</p><p>Akira rolls his eyes and manages to get the chips back. “You two are big babies,” he snorts.</p><p>“Dude,” Ryuji whines, wiping at his eyes with the sleeves of his sweatshirt. “I think you might just be a masochist.”</p><p>“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Akira coos, eyebrows waggling. Mishima giggles as Ryuji flushes, pushing at Akira’s shoulder gently.</p><p>“What time is the shower supposed to start?” Mishima asks, propping his back up against the window.</p><p>Akira rolls his sleeve up his arm and glances at his watch. “Two thirty is the peak. So…. About ten minutes.”</p><p>Mishima nods and then shivers, a pathetic little wounded noise coming out of him as the chill hits him.</p><p>“Hey,” Ryuji says, leaning down. “You cold, man?”</p><p>“I’m f-fine,” Mishima chatters, clutching at his arms. He goes for a laugh. “It’s not like I ha-haven’t dealt with worse.”</p><p>“Here,” Ryuji says, and Mishima watches, wide eyed, as he pulls his sweatshirt over his head. “I was getting kind of hot.”</p><p>“Wait!” Mishima says, when Ryuji’s jacket gets shoved in his arms. “B-but… what if you get cold again?”</p><p>Ryuji shrugs. “We’ve got blankets in the trunk. I can just get one for myself.”</p><p>“Oh,” Mishima says, quietly, looking at the bundle of purple fabric in his arms. “If it’s alright, then…”</p><p>The jacket is warm, still full of lingering body heat, and it smells really, <em>really</em> good. Like laundry detergent, and deodorant, and a little bit like coffee, Mishima notices, subtly burying his nose in the edge of the fabric. It’s really nice. No wonder Akira is always hanging off of him like that.</p><p>“Thanks,” he mumbles, not quite able to meet Ryuji’s eye. He shifts around in Ryuji’s jacket and watches him throw an arm around Akira’s shoulder, leaning in when Akira presses a kiss to his cheek.</p><p>He… really likes them. He’s never really had close friends before, so he’s not sure what to do about it, but Akira sends him a smile that makes him feel warm, and Ryuji laughs when Akira presses his nose under his jaw and… he feels… weird.</p><p>He should be happy, right? He’s got friends now, and they take him to look at the stars and call him on slow weeknights, and he got exactly what he wanted. He’s a little less lonely. The feeling that settles in his chest, though, when Akira tucks snuggly into Ryuji’s side, eyes sliding shut blissfully, maybe makes Mishima feel… left out instead.</p><p>He remembers when he first joined the team, Ryuji called Akira their <em>star</em>. He said the team orbits around Akira, and Akira orbits around Ryuji, and Mishima… Mishima is a little out of sync. He’s a moon to two stars. Cold, empty rock in the heat of two blazing comets.</p><p>What would it feel like if he slipped between them? If that was Ryuji’s arm on <em>his</em> shoulder, Akira’s head on his chest. He wonders if they’d hold him as tight as they hold each other.</p><p>“Look!”</p><p>Ryuji points at the sky and Mishima realizes he was staring with an embarrassed flush. What is he <em>thinking</em>? He’s their friend—their temporary teammate. That’s all this is. They’re nice as long as Mishima is on the team, as long as he’s doing something for them.</p><p>The sky is a little darker when he looks up, a second before the first meteor tears across the sky brightly, a long line of white in the near black. Akira’s head is on Ryuji’s shoulder, and Mishima buries his nose in his jacket, and wonders if the moon ever gets jealous of the stars. It probably should.</p><p>It’s nice to have friends, isn’t it? Mishima is glad he has friends. Another meteor comes crashing down.</p><p>“Thanks for bringing me out,” he says quietly. Ryuji reaches over to ruffle his hair, and Mishima lets himself wonder, for a moment, if he’d touch him even if he didn’t have to.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Goodnight!” Ryuji yells, waving as Mishima ducks back into his dorm building with a smile. He turns to Akira with a smile, face softening when he notices the slow, sleepy way his boyfriend is blinking at him. “That was fun,” he says quietly, reaching over to slide their fingers together.</p><p>“It was,” Akira says, lifting their intertwined hands to press a kiss to the back of Ryuji’s knuckles. Ryuji’s back in his jacket now, the fabric warm from being on Mishima’s body for as long as it was. It’s warmer than it was before, and a little sweeter, now.</p><p>“We should take him out more, huh?” Ryuji says, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to Akira’s mouth.</p><p>“Yeah,” Akira says, with a smile.</p><p>“He’s cute,” Ryuji says quietly, leaning in for another kiss.</p><p>“Yeah?” Akira says quietly, hands going to the sides of Ryuji’s face. His fingertips are cold, but Ryuji doesn’t really mind, not when he’s pulling him closer over the console, mouth warm.</p><p>“Mhm,” Ryuji hums, hand sliding across Akira’s thigh. “I think I like him.”</p><p>“<em>Ryuji</em>,” Akira says breathlessly, shifting up to kiss him harder, and Ryuji goes like he always does, as Akira kisses him breathless. “Take me home,” he whispers.</p><p>Ryuji presses one, two, last lingering kisses to the edge of his mouth, and leans back to shift the car into drive. “Yes, sir.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Wiry little—” Makoto grunts, when Mishima dips past her again.</p><p>She’s split teams for power versus speed this time—Mishima, Akira and Futaba up against her, Haru, and Ryuji. When Mishima finally got formally introduced to the team, she hadn’t expected him to be so <em>fast</em>. He’s not like Haru, quiet and smart, but Mishima is a tough figure to get a hold on, especially when he ducks behind Akira’s larger form as he escorts him past the jammer line.</p><p>Makoto is as impressed as she is annoyed, because Mishima isn’t <em>bad</em> by any stretch of the imagination, and a weapon against another team is just being turned towards <em>her</em> for the time being. He’s nothing like Ann, but they weren’t really expecting him to be.</p><p>The other <em>thing</em> about Mishima, is the glances that get thrown his way when he’s not looking. Akira and Ryuji are plenty friendly, but Makoto <em>knows</em> them. They look at Mishima for too long, hunched over his knees as he pants towards the ground. Makoto isn’t stupid.</p><p>And she knows a problem when she sees one.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Hey!” Mishima says, bounding up to where Akira is untying his shoes. He’s already back in his sneakers, tank top plastered in sweat and little red headband secure in place. It looks a little silly against the color of his hair, and Akira is struggling not to snort at his bare forehead, but it lets Akira see more of his eyes. “Are you guys headed home right now?”</p><p>Akira raises an eyebrow and slides his foot out of one skate. “Considering it’s nearly one A.M. and I have class in the morning, I was planning on it.”</p><p>“Oh,” Mishima says, a little more hesitant. “I was just wondering, I mean—maybe… I thought… dinner? Would be fun?”</p><p>Akira tilts his head to the side and watches Mishima shuffle slightly, clutching at the handle of his bag. “I’m not opposed to getting dinner,” he says slowly. “Ryuji’s gotta drive though.”</p><p>“Oh!” Mishima says, brightening instantly. “I know! We, uh, kind of talked about it already.” He looks over his shoulder and Akira follows his glance back towards where Ryuji is sitting on a table, kicking his legs back and forth with an encouraging thumbs up. Akira rolls his eyes and makes sure his boyfriend is very aware it is directed his way.</p><p>“Ah, plotting behind my back with my boyfriend,” Akira sighs, reaching out to poke Mishima in the arm. “I see how it is.”</p><p>“No way!” Mishima says loudly, before slapping a hand over his mouth, face flushing red. “I-I mean, we were just talking about it, but—”</p><p>“I’m kidding,” Akira says quietly, and reaches down to undo his other skate. “Dinner sounds great. Why don’t you pick, tonight?”</p><p>“Me?” Mishima squeaks. Akira raises an eyebrow. “I-I mean, yeah! Of course, I’ll… um… go and not confer with Ryuji about this.”</p><p>Akira can’t help his laugh. “Don’t let him pressure you into going wherever he wants.”</p><p>“Will do, captain,” Mishima laughs, headed back towards where Ryuji is waiting with a grin.</p><p>Akira gets back to undoing his skates quietly, before another shadow slides into his view. “Did you pick someplace good—” he starts, before glancing up and seeing Makoto. “Oh, hi.”</p><p>“Hi,” Makoto says evenly, face tense and hands uncomfortably linked in front of her. “Can we talk?”</p><p>“’course,” Akira says, leaning onto his knees. It seems like nobody wants him to get these skates off. “What’s up?”</p><p>Makoto sighs. “What are you and Ryuji doing with Mishima?”</p><p>Akira blinks and feels his eyebrows pressing together. “What do you mean? We’re just… welcoming him to the team.” Right? That’s all they’d been doing, just making sure their new member didn’t feel left out.</p><p><em>I think I like him</em>, Ryuji whispers in his head. Akira puts it out of his mind. Ryuji likes <em>everyone</em>.</p><p>Makoto fixes him with a stare that reads perfectly as <em>that’s bullshit and you know it.</em> “Akira. I trust you. You know that, but—” she glances over her shoulder at Haru, legs curled under her as she helps Futaba stretch. “We’ve talked about dating inside the team.” She sighs, facing him again. “I know you and Ryuji are… open about this stuff—”</p><p>“Hey,” Akira says quietly, fixing Makoto with a look he’s hoping doesn’t come across with the little flare of anger in his chest. “I know that, all right? Ryuji knows it too. We’re not about to fuck up our matches because we’re selfish.”</p><p>Makoto’s eyes twitch towards Haru again, involuntarily, and Akira kind of wants to say something, just to get under her skin the way she’s gotten under his. It’s petty, and mean, but then his own eyes wander, and he finds Mishima laughing, leaning in to push Ryuji lightly in the shoulder, squealing loudly when Ryuji wraps a no doubt sweaty arm around his shoulder. He barely gets a moment to stare before Mishima is meeting his eye and flushing, ducking out of Ryuji’s hold with a yelp.</p><p><em>Oh</em>, he thinks suddenly when Makoto clears her throat. Maybe he hasn’t been paying close enough attention.</p><p>“You and Ryuji are the backbone of our team,” Makoto explains. “We really don’t need to throw someone into a dynamic that could upset all of the thieves is all I’m saying.” She scratches at her thumb. “Just… be careful.”</p><p>Akira nods. “Right, of course. We’re not… I mean—it isn’t—”</p><p>“It’s alright,” Makoto says with a smile, leaning down to pat him on the shoulder. “It’s not like we can always have everything we want.”</p><p>“Akira!” Ryuji shouts, wandering over with Mishima as a shadow. “You ready to head out?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Akira says emptily, trying not to look down at Mishima’s bright face, when he gets to his feet. “Come on, guys!” he shouts, watching Futaba and Haru roll out of cool down stretches and onto their feet.</p><p>
  <em>I think I like him.</em>
</p><p>“Lights out!” he shouts, and turns for the door.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>7:14 P.M.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Hey! Are you guys busy tonight? I know we didn’t have a scheduled practice, but maybe we could do some individual training? &gt; Mishima</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Akira &lt; Do you still think you need it? It’s probably more important you focus on the whole team now.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Akira &lt; It’s about more than just fooling around with me and Ryuji now. You know that, right?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh! Yeah, for sure. Um. &gt; Mishima</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sorry for asking, haha &gt; Mishima</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’ll just… do some conditioning on my own &gt; Mishima</em>
</p><p>Mishima glances down at the message he has typed out, finger hovering over the send button. It’s a simple, fairy unassuming, <em>text me if you want to hang out!</em> Which sounds… presumptuous. He’s been getting awfully comfortable lately, and the little bit of ice in his chest at the way Akira dismisses him is just a reminder of what he supposed to be focused on. Or, what he’s not supposed to be focused on. When was the last time he was as focused on derby more than just seeing Ryuji and Akira?</p><p>He’s a temporary fixture—a stand in. He’s not the best, or the brightest, or even what the thieves really <em>need</em>. Maybe he should take it as a compliment that Akira doesn’t think he needs the extra help. Maybe it shouldn’t make his throat close up, as he fights off the hot sting of tears. They’re not doing this because they <em>like </em>him. Why should they?</p><p>He deletes the message.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>7:20 P.M.</strong>
</p><p>See you on Friday! &gt; Mishima</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Everyone is aware this is our final practice before Saturday’s game, correct?”</p><p>There’s nods and affirmative noises, Mishima settles for a grave nod.</p><p>Makoto makes an affirmative noise, looking down at her tablet at the head of the table. “We’re going in as what feels like a new team, with Mishima under our belt. As far as equipment goes, you’re all set, correct?”</p><p>“Um…” Mishima starts, unsure of how to begin. “Actually—”</p><p>“Oh!” Ann says, jumping suddenly. “Sorry, this one’s on me,” she drops down and rummages through a bag with her good arm, before pulling out a bundle of bright red fabric. “Tah-dah!” she sings, holding the fabric out to Mishima.</p><p>He glances over his shoulder at Akira, and is rewarded with a slight shrug and an evasive glance away. “We didn’t have time to order you a new one.”</p><p>Makoto jabs at her screen a bit. “We’ll see how you perform at this match and get you a jersey before the next one, if Ann isn’t back to full functioning by then.” She glances up at Mishima again. “We’ll also be giving you her nickname as well, just so we don’t waste time.”</p><p>“Boo!” Ryuji shouts, folding onto the table. “It ain’t a waste! C’mon, Makoto, it’ll take <em>five</em> minutes.”</p><p>Haru rests a hand on Makoto’s shoulder that makes her jump and then sink back into her chair, face relaxing as Haru comes into her vision. “It probably won’t take too long, Mako-chan.”</p><p>“T-that’s not the issue,” Makoto says gently, sliding out from under Haru’s hand. The little movement makes Haru’s face fall slightly, her hands going back primly to her lap. Makoto clears her throat again. “The problem is that Mishima will be wearing Ann’s jersey, which clearly says <em>Panther</em> on it.” Mishima flips it around and sees, clear as day on the back, <em>Panther</em> <em>#06</em>. “We can’t confuse the ref or the announcer, so until we get him a new jersey, it’ll be Panther.”</p><p>“Sorry man,” Ryuji says quietly, leaning closer to nudge their shoulders again. “We tried.”</p><p>“I don’t mind,” Mishima whispers back. He glances at the jersey again, ignoring the way his stomach twists. “I don’t even know what nickname I’d use.”</p><p>“Start thinking about it,” Akira says, sitting up straighter when all gazes fall on him. “Just in case.”</p><p>Right, Mishima thinks, glancing down at the borrowed jersey, the borrowed skates, the borrowed lifestyle. Just in case he makes it, in case he doesn’t fail spectacularly, in case Ann is able to go back to her team who <em>loves</em> her. His mouth sours.</p><p>“Hey,” Ann says, reaching out to tap Mishima’s foot with hers. “Did they tell you about the after-game tradition?”</p><p>“Tradition?” Mishima asks.</p><p>Ann brightens immediately, leaning forward in her seat. “Oh, man! You guys didn’t tell him about the party?”</p><p>“We didn’t know if you’d still be up for it!” Haru says gently. “After all, you don’t even get to play.”</p><p>“Nuh-uh!” Ann says. “It’s tradition, we’ve gotta.”</p><p>“What’s the tradition?” Mishima asks again, glancing at Akira for confirmation.</p><p>“Ann throws a party after every one of our games,” Akira explains with a shrug.</p><p>“It’s <em>awesome</em>,” Ryuji amends, leaning closer to wrap an arm around Mishima’s shoulder. “Her parents are <em>loaded</em>, so they bought her this sweet house—”</p><p>“It’s a regular sized house—” Ann grumbles.</p><p>“—and we all pile in after our games to celebrate. It’s ‘cause Makoto doesn’t let us drink before bouts—”</p><p>“Which would be dangerous!” Makoto gasps.</p><p>“—so we get trashed and play music and yell at each other. Sometimes Ann even lets us use the pool if it’s not too cold! It’s a good way to get the adrenaline rush out.” Ryuji squeezes him in closer. “You <em>have</em> to come. It’s literally not a choice.”</p><p>“But—” Mishima starts.</p><p>Ryuji puts a finger up to his mouth. “No buts! As long as you’re a thief, you go to Takamaki sponsored after game parties.”</p><p>Another uncomfortable glance gets thrown Akira’s way, and Mishima finds he’s not even looking at him, eyes fixed on his lap under the table. He looks like he wants to say something, and it makes Mishima feel… annoyed.</p><p>He’s a little pissed that as much as he’s given their team, and as <em>friendly</em> as Akira and Ryuji have been, that now for some reason, he’s not even fit to be <em>looked</em> at. He thought Akira liked—<em>enjoyed</em> his company. He thought he had a place he fit in.</p><p>He’s going to be for the thieves what they need at this game, and he’s going to make Akira <em>look</em> at him. “Alright. I’ll come.”</p><p>“Nice!” Ryuji shouts with a fist pump.</p><p>“If you’re finished?” Makoto says, putting her tablet down. Akira sighs quietly. “We’ve got one more practice under our belt, Thieves. And I’d rather not have our first after-party since Ann’s injury be full of wallowing over a loss.” She snaps her wrist guard, and tucks a bit of hair behind an ear. Mishima adjusts his kneepads.</p><p>“Let’s kick some ass.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He spends the night watching the videos Ann sent him again. It’s a struggle, but he manages to watch her as she skates instead of Akira as their jammer, watching as she tears through walls and whips Akira forward, stacking up with Ryuji against one of their frankly <em>huge</em> opponents to send him reeling.</p><p>He curls his knees up underneath him, reaching for the little Gatorade bottle on his desk. He’s been so focused on trying to stay upright, trying to figure out where he fits in, that he forgot to be what the Thieves <em>needed</em> from him. They’re missing their anchor, their tank. He’s small and flighty—he’s been focusing too much on speed.</p><p>He’s just got to figure out how to cram himself in the missing piece instead of trying to make it his shape. If he wants to be valuable enough to stand out, he’s got to change, and fast. <em>Supersonic</em>, Akira had said once.</p><p>Mishima has got his work cut out for him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oh! Hey, in case you were wondering what song Mishima and Ryuji were dancing to, I wrote with <a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/1ACds8DyX9smrRz5YXvOpr">this</a> on repeat. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Take a deep breath,” Makoto says, looking at all of The Thieves, but mostly at him. “It’s our first game without Ann, Mishima’s first game period, and, well—” she glances over her shoulder at the group of people sporting royal blue jerseys and matching platinum hair. They look kind of like a cult, based on the eerily similar appearances and unmistakable charm. Makoto sighs. “The Attendants have never gone easy on us.”</p>
<p>“Any final words?” Futaba asks gravely. Yusuke takes a photo of Mishima looking anxious.</p>
<p>“I’m really feeling the support and faith you have in me, guys, thanks,” Mishima says dryly.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Before this chapter starts, I would like to say: There are certain tags that are not on this fic that would be on this fic if they were a problem. That is all the warning I am going to give. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>Mishima has his first roller derby bout on a Saturday.</p>
<p>He is, to say the least, nervous as shit.</p>
<p>He’s still on a loaned pair of skates, and nursing a bruise on his side, but he texts Ann <em>Should I be as nervous as I am</em> and feels slightly comforted when her responses chalk up to <em>Yes,</em> and <em>Fuck yes</em>.</p>
<p>Every time Mishima has been to The Metaverse thus far it would be easy to describe the atmosphere as… sleepy. Relaxed, maybe. It’s always after closing, and the number of people inside never even exceeds the number of people on their team (plus Futaba and Yusuke) and Mishima has kind of fallen into the mindset that <em>The Metaverse</em> is a slow, soft haven away from his tedious day-to-day life.</p>
<p>When Mishima shows up two hours after Saturday’s closing to a near full parking lot, loud music, and flashing neon lights, well, he feels like he’s in for a whirlwind of trouble.</p>
<p>The crowd of people standing around is considerably large, but Mishima can tell they’re split between college students with too much free time and the high schoolers that have trickled in, and he gets flashed a lot of painted nails, dyed hair, spiked chokers. Someone has outfitted the skate desk into a mini bar, and the whole building smells like cheap alcohol and sweat, all topped off with the lemon scented cleaner he’s really starting to love.</p>
<p>“Take a deep breath,” Makoto says, looking at all of The Thieves, but mostly at him. “It’s our first game without Ann, Mishima’s first game <em>period</em>, and, well—” she glances over her shoulder at the group of people sporting royal blue jerseys and matching platinum hair. They look kind of like a cult, based on the eerily similar appearances and unmistakable charm. Makoto sighs. “The Attendants have never gone easy on us.”</p>
<p>“Any final words?” Futaba asks gravely. Yusuke takes a photo of Mishima looking anxious.</p>
<p>“I’m really feeling the support and faith you have in me, guys, thanks,” Mishima says dryly. It would be a lie to say he’s surprised when Ryuji throws a comforting arm over his shoulder, cheek to cheek with Mishima’s tense grimace.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Ryuji cheers. “What are you guys acting like we’re fighting a losing battle for? Come on, let’s get pumped!”</p>
<p>What Mishima <em>isn’t</em> expecting is the <em>other</em> arm that gets thrown over his shoulder, and the hard line of Akira’s body as he leans his weight onto Mishima. He and Akira haven’t spoken much since their last practice, and Mishima is still kind of wary that suddenly Akira wants nothing to do with him, but he lets himself lean into the warmth of his extra weight guiltily with a quiet exhale.</p>
<p>“It’s our game to win,” Akira says, hand going out into the center of the group. Mishima stares, and Ryuji laughs in his ear, hand slapping down on top of Akira’s. </p>
<p>“If we can’t win,” Haru says happily, her mouth twisting into something borderline cruel, eyes twinkling mischievously, “we’ll at least take a few people down.” She puts her hand in.</p>
<p>“No penalties this match, Noir,” Makoto sighs, dropping her hand into the pile.</p>
<p>Haru giggles. “No promises.”</p>
<p>Mishima feels Ryuji’s hand squeeze on his waist, and Akira’s on his shoulder, their twin stares meeting out of the corner of his eye.</p>
<p>“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Mishima says, braver than he feels, and puts his hand together with everyone else’s.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Mishima is pretty sure he has a broken finger. Or maybe it’s his hand? Or his wrist? He’s not really sure. All he knows is that he slammed into one of the blonde’s shoulders and put his hand between their bodies, and now he kind of can’t hold his water bottle.</p>
<p>“Ice it afterwards,” Makoto says, nursing a bloody nose. “We just broke the lead.”</p>
<p>“And we can <em>keep</em> it if we stay on hard offence,” Futaba says, tapping away the tablet usually reserved for Makoto. Mishima guesses Futaba really does control their overall plays. “Team Attendants are too powerful for our baby defense—no offence, Panther—”</p>
<p>“None taken,” Mishima murmurs.</p>
<p>“But if we keep the pack open enough for Joker and Skull to get through, we might be fine.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure you’re okay?” Akira asks quietly, leaning down to Mishima’s ear. He squeezes the hand around his wrist and nods.</p>
<p>“I’ll be alright.”</p>
<p>They stack up against the jammer line, Akira’s hand low on Ryuji’s back, Mishima’s hands on his knees. Haru makes a low sound when the one male member of the opposing team looks her way, a delicate blonde eyebrow raised in her direction. Mishima does his best to avoid looking at anyone all together, eyes fixed on the track ahead.</p>
<p>Ann’s jersey is itchy on his back, skin prickling when Makoto asks, “You good, Panther?”</p>
<p>“For sure,” Mishima says, as evenly as he can manage. Granted, that’s still with a half worrying shake of his voice, but it’s progress, if the way Ryuji’s mouth quirks up is any indication.</p>
<p>There’s a whistle, and everyone slots together like a broken puzzle. Mishima’s hand is killing him, especially when a wayward smack from Ryuji catches him by surprise, but he stacks up against one of the short blockers with a grunt, pushing her back as she reaches for the other player Mishima assumes is her twin.</p>
<p>“Joker!” Haru shouts, and Mishima watches Akira take her hand and get dragged forward, stumbling gracefully—somehow—into a race around the track. The crowd gathered around the rink swells with sound, probably surprised at the look of The Thieves getting ahead, but Mishima takes an elbow to the kneecap and the little blonde girl darts around him, going to help their jammer.</p>
<p>Panther is supposed to be their hard hitter, supposed to take their opposing walls down, but when Akira laps the pack again, Mishima runs straight into a blockers back and crumples onto the floor, only managing to bounce back a second before the whistle sounds again.</p>
<p><em>Thieves</em>: 43 <em>Attendants</em>: 42</p>
<p>Mishima swears quietly, falling back in with everyone else as they head back towards the jammer line.</p>
<p>There’s a hand on his back as he turns around, a puff of breath on Mishima’s neck that makes him shiver.</p>
<p>“Take a deep breath,” Ryuji says quietly, and Mishima just nods. “You’re not playing like yourself.”</p>
<p>“I’m… figuring it out,” Mishima says slowly, to avoid snapping. Frustration is an ugly thing, crawling up his chest and squeezing his throat, digging his nails into his palm. He wants to hit someone, hit <em>something</em>, but Haru’s gotten them two penalties already, and Futaba probably doesn’t see any need to call a time out, so he just has to grit his teeth and bear it.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Akira says, when Mishima crouches down.</p>
<p>“What?” Mishima growls, eyes scanning over The Attendants’ faces. He could outrun all of them if he wasn’t stuck in the fucking pack, chipping away at their walls with a spoon instead of a jackhammer.</p>
<p><em>Strong</em>, he’s supposed to be <em>strong</em>.</p>
<p>Akira studies his face, eyes jumping between Mishima’s eyes, before he faces back forward. “Never mind. You’re doing just fine.”</p>
<p>The whistle goes off again, and Mishima can’t help it, he skates forward fast, backing into one of the blockers before she can even see what’s coming. He hears a yelp from Haru—that might’ve been someone she had her sights set on—but he sends her stumbling, just enough space for Ryuji to pull Akira through, and it makes the itch under his skin quiet for the moment.</p>
<p>Maybe it’s a little dirty, but he smiles when the opposing player goes down, golden eyes wide.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The second the game is over, Mishima is rushing to the bathroom to ride out the adrenaline rush before he does something stupid. He’s greeted by dingy fluorescent lights and ridiculously printed wallpaper that makes him feel even <em>more</em> like his heart is beating out of his chest uncomfortably, but the <em>wallpaper</em> is really the least of his concerns.</p>
<p>They’d won barely, buoyed by a couple bad falls on team Attendants, and Mishima vaguely remembers seeing the same vision he’d taken in from videos time and time again, the smear of red and yellow that meant Ryuji and Akira were plowing their way through the pack at lightning speed. Twin stars, crashing between navy blue and blood red.</p>
<p>Mishima had been at the end of the pack, holding down a wall with Haru when the final whistle had sounded, and Akira had pushed past them with a shout. Mishima had gone down when Ryuji had tackled him, and then pulled Akira on top of him, Haru falling next and Makoto offering an exhausted laugh. Mishima could barely tell how warm his face was under Ryuji’s body heat, though he certainly noticed when one of Ryuji’s fingers brushed against the skin under his ridden up shirt.</p>
<p>Mishima slams into one of the stalls and puts his head in his hands, before he <em>screams</em>, muffled by his palms and then his arms as he wraps them around his face. His feelings are going from frustrating to downright annoying, and Mishima lets himself hunch over with a yell, cursing himself for every joining this stupid team.</p>
<p>At least they won, and he’s not in danger of getting thrown aside yet, but <em>Akira</em> and <em>Ryuji</em>—</p>
<p>He yelps quietly when the door slams open again, and then covers his mouth with his hands, pulling his legs up on the toilet in a panic.</p>
<p>There’s shuffling, a murmured swear, and the very clear sound of someone being hoisted against the sinks under the mirror.</p>
<p><em>Oh shit,</em> Mishima thinks, because two people in this bathroom are very clearly making out now.</p>
<p>There’s a gasp that gets cut off by a laugh, and the sound of rustling fabric. “…blood all on your mouth, babe—”</p>
<p>“Shut up,” Mishima hears growled, like someone has their face pressed into skin. “<em>Fuck</em>, you smell so good.” That’s… oh. <em>Oh</em>. Mishima can recognize that voice, recognizes the laugh. That’s Akira.</p>
<p>Ohhh shit.</p>
<p>…and Ryuji.</p>
<p>Okay. Okay cool. The hot guys Mishima is pinning over hopelessly are <em>very clearly</em> pawing at each other while he hides in a too bright roller rink bathroom. What the fuck. Shit like this doesn’t <em>happen</em> to him. He briefly wonders if maybe he’ll wake up in his bed tomorrow and realize the last few weeks have actually been some weird fever dream he managed to concoct because of cough syrup or something. That’s the only way his life has taken this turn.</p>
<p>“I smell like sweat,” he hears Ryuji gasp, and Mishima covers his mouth with a shudder at the rough tone of his voice. He shouldn’t be hearing this, he knows but… god, he needs to get <em>out</em> of here.</p>
<p>“And blood,” Akira adds helpfully.</p>
<p>There’s more shifting, the sound of the water in the sink getting turned on, and Mishima squeezes his eyes closed as Ryuji moans quietly, his voice bounding around the bathroom. The time to pipe up with a very polite, “Pining teammate in here!” has passed Mishima by clearly, and now he just has to sit on the toilet and try not to imagine Akira, sweat slick and bloody pushing Ryuji up against the sink, mouthing at his neck. Or maybe it’s the other way around, and Ryuji is slotted between his legs, and—another rustle of clothes. <em>God</em>, Mishima watches too much porn.</p>
<p>Oh, and he’s hard, he realizes, horrifically. His night is just getting better.</p>
<p>“Touch me,” he hears Akira gasp, something slamming against the wall outside. “Do it, Ryuji, come on, come <em>on</em>—”</p>
<p>There’s another gasp, another strangely slick very clear mouth sound, and Mishima folds in on himself with a shudder, only to realize that when he shuts his eyes he’s subject to his own imagination, and that is so much worse, god, god, <em>god</em>—</p>
<p>“<em>Yes</em>,” Akira moans. “Goddamn, you know you look good in my blood.”</p>
<p>Mishima makes a wounded noise quietly that’s drowned out by the sound of Akira whining, and Mishima shakes his head. He and Akira have barely spoken this week and now he’s trapped in a bathroom while he and Ryuji do… <em>something</em> out there.</p>
<p>There’s a yelp, and a low, “Who gave you this bruise?”</p>
<p>“E-Elizabeth gave it to me. The, <em>ah</em>, the second bout, when I tripped over Haru—<em>fuck</em>, ‘yuji don’t press on it that hard.”</p>
<p>“You like it when it hurts.”</p>
<p>Mishima tips his head against the back of the toilet. <em>Wake up</em>, he thinks desperately. The universe is so unkind.</p>
<p>There’s another sigh from Akira, high and whiny, and more <em>horrific </em>rustling—</p>
<p>“<em>Yes</em>!” Akira gasps. “<em>L-like</em> that, ohh <em>god</em>, you’re so good to me baby, fuck, <em>fuck</em>—”</p>
<p>Mishima did not expect him to be as <em>loud</em> as he is. Every little gasp and moan from Akira makes Mishima’s toes curl in his socks. As his heart picks up, and now he just wants to crawl under the stall to <em>see.</em></p>
<p>He knows exactly when Akira… uh… <em>finishes</em> because it sounds like he’s been <em>shot</em>, voice cracking as he groans out broken versions of Ryuji’s name, some choked off repetition of <em>love you, love you</em> that has Mishima’s chest starting to ache.</p>
<p>“I love you,” Akira breathes, one final time, and Mishima hears his breath get cut off as Ryuji kisses him again, their mouths sliding together wetly in the bathroom.</p>
<p>Mishima needs out. Now.</p>
<p>“Your hair is all fucked up,” Ryuji laughs.</p>
<p>There’s a light knocking sound, like Akira has shoved him, and another laugh, another kiss. “Whose fault is that?”</p>
<p>“Like your hair isn’t always this messy.”</p>
<p>Mishima feels… gross, listening in on their conversation like this. He’s heard plenty of Akira and Ryuji flirting, sure, but teasing little remarks tossed across rooms and dark cars aren’t really the same as hearing them whisper to each other between secretive little kisses, especially when all Mishima has to go on is his own imagination.</p>
<p>If Mishima walks out right now, and throws himself into their arms, who would catch him? Would Ryuji kiss him the way he kisses Akira, would he whisper, <em>I love you</em>, into his hair? Would Akira hold him as tightly as he holds Ryuji? As unshakingly? Does he get the privilege of being teased about his messy hair, the bruises littering his body?</p>
<p>“<em>God</em>, Akira,” Ryuji whispers quietly, reverently, and Mishima touches his foot to the ground. He’s only two steps away from finding out.</p>
<p>“Come on,” Akira grunts, the mirror rattling obviously in the wall. “Let’s go before Makoto comes looking for us.”</p>
<p>The lights flicker, and Mishima pulls his foot back up under him.</p>
<p>He really needs to remember that it’s not his place to know.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Mishima spills back onto the carpet of The Metaverse like a plucked chicken, watching as people spread out to skate clumsily across the now freed rink like everyone <em>hasn’t</em> just gotten their heart broken in a poorly lit bathroom stall. Which, in his opinion, is a little unfair.</p>
<p>There’s a lot of talking, and a lot of laughing, and Mishima nearly <em>screams</em> when someone touches his shoulder from behind, before he whips around to see Ann wide eyed and half-smiling. “What the hell happened to you?” she asks.</p>
<p>“Um!” Mishima squeaks. <em>Caught our teammates making out in a bathroom?</em> “N-nothing!”</p>
<p>“Ooookay,” Ann drawls, leaning into Mishima’s side. She smells like perfume and sugar, and Mishima curses himself internally for not feeling about <em>her</em> the way he apparently does Ryuji and Akira. At least Ann isn’t actively dating someone on <em>top</em> of being out of his league. He snaps himself back to it when Ann throws an arm around his shoulder. “The team was looking for you so we could do drinks for, like, victory or whatever. You down for a couple of shots?”</p>
<p>“Y-yeah!” Mishima says, nodding vigorously. Maybe if he gets enough alcohol in him he can forget Ryuji panting, <em>Akira, Akira, Akira</em>— “Please,” he begs, latching onto the sleeve of Ann’s good arm. “Take me to drink.”</p>
<p>Ann laughs as she herds him towards what <em>used</em> to be the counter set up for retrieving skates, now littered with bottles and shot glasses and overturned plastic cups. He can see the thieves gathered around, interspersed with unfamiliar faces and <em>more</em> dyed hair, though it seems the universe is not kind enough to spare him Akira and Ryuji, looking no worse for wear than they did when the game ended. But Mishima can spot the slightly ruffled hair and the disheveled clothes with hypersensitivity, and he makes a direct beeline for Futaba instead of them, afraid he won’t be able to look either one in the eye.</p>
<p>“Nishima!” Futaba hoots, lifting a cup. “Glad you could join us!”</p>
<p>“It’s Mishima,” Mishima sighs, glancing at the spread-out bottles. “Ann said we were doing shots?”</p>
<p>“Ohoho,” Futaba laughs, “underaged drinking, Nishima? How sly.”</p>
<p>“I’m literally twenty,” Mishima sighs, leaning past Futaba to grab one of the full shot glasses. “You know this.”</p>
<p>Futaba snickers, leaning across the counter for her own glass, and Mishima makes the mistake of glancing in that general direction, locking eyes for a second with Ryuji, before whipping back around. “Can I just…?” he asks hurriedly, turning back to Futaba. The Ryuji in his head echoes, <em>I love you, Akira</em>.</p>
<p>“Go!” Futaba yells, tipping her head back, shot glass to her lips.</p>
<p>Mishima follows as best as he can, but the drink <em>burns</em>, and tastes weirdly smoky, and he’s kind of regretting how unfamiliar he is with casual drinking. His throat burns as he coughs, heat settling low in his stomach and buzzing through his limbs.</p>
<p>“What is that?” he wheezes, setting the drink back down with a wince.</p>
<p>“Who cares!” Futaba says. “It’s The Attendants’ turn to do drinks this match, so quit complainin’.” Mishima watches, horrified, as Futaba immediately downs another shot, before her eyes catch on something over Mishima’s shoulder, and she perks up and runs off without a word.</p>
<p>“Futaba’s tolerance levels are batshit,” someone says, low into Mishima’s ear. A shiver races up his spine as he turns, taking in Ryuji’s bright eyes, the hand he has on Mishima’s shoulders. “She chugged straight vodka once and still had the faculties left to destroy me at Mario Kart.”</p>
<p>“Yikes,” Mishima laughs, trying to ignore how Ryuji’s hand is lingering. It doesn’t <em>mean</em> anything, he’s happy with Akira, he’s happy with Akira, he’s <em>very</em> happy—</p>
<p>“We we’re looking for you,” Akira says at Ryuji’s side, and Mishima’s cheeks heat up, mouth snapping closed. He’s so busy avoiding either of their gazes that he fails to notice the extra body at Akira’s side until he’s met with an unfamiliar snort, and a blinding, curled smile. “Mishima,” Akira says, with a bump of his hip to the right. “This is Goro Akechi.”</p>
<p><em>Goro Akechi</em> tips his head to the side with a curled lip, and even through the poorly hidden scorn, Mishima can still tell he’s still <em>gorgeous</em>. His eyes are a deep reddening color, long hair pulled back in a bright red scrunchie, and he’s got that model sort of jawline, full lips set into an upturned smirk. Mishima is starting to wonder if the Thieves just <em>attract</em> pretty people.</p>
<p>“N-nice to meet you,” Mishima says shakily, wanting desperately for another shot. He is absolutely not in the correct headspace for this. If such a thing even exists, because Akechi is giving him a once over that makes Mishima shift uncomfortably on his feet, before red eyes fall back on Ryuji. “<em>This</em> is your new blocker?”</p>
<p>“The one an’ only,” Ryuji purrs, pulling Mishima closer into his side. The proximity is making Mishima turn pink, he knows, because Akechi is raising an eyebrow and somehow managing to look even <em>less</em> impressed.</p>
<p>“I see,” he says knowingly, eyes falling to Ryuji’s hand on his shoulder. It makes Mishima squirm. “Well, Joker, you did always have a… keen eye.”</p>
<p>“Aw,” Akira coos, smirking at Akechi at his side. “You jealous, ‘kechi?”</p>
<p>Akira is a little taller on skates, Mishima notices, but in reality he’s probably shorter than Akechi. If the twitch Akechi’s eye gives as he has to look <em>up</em> at Akira is any indication, that’s probably more correct than Mishima imagined.</p>
<p>“Not in the slightest!” Akechi chirps, voice dripping with saccharine insincerity. His gaze goes back to Mishima, and it’s like a switch flips, his face twisting cruelly. “You couldn’t beat us with a powerhouse like Ann on your team. Why should I be afraid of some little try-hard that can barely hold his own against <em>Caroline</em>?”</p>
<p>“Try—” Mishima starts, before he feels Ryuji squeeze at his shoulder.</p>
<p>“He’s just trying to rile you up,” Ryuji says quietly, mouth at Mishima’s ear. His eyes are still on Akechi though, smile still in place like he knows what Akechi is doing better than anyone could. “Akechi likes to get a rise out of people before they face him in bouts.”</p>
<p>Wait, Mishima thinks. He has to <em>play</em> this guy?</p>
<p>“That doesn’t take the truth out of it,” Akechi snorts, shifting his weight onto the other leg. “I’m excited to see what you can do, <em>Mishima-kun</em>. Though my expectations aren’t particularly high.”</p>
<p>“Hey—” Mishima starts, before Akechi is off with a wave, a lingering glance at Ryuji. “What’s his problem?” he asks, glancing up at Ryuji at his side.</p>
<p>Ryuji, for his part, is still watching Akechi’s retreating back, something sparkling in his eyes Mishima doesn’t really have a name for. His tongue darts out over his teeth, before he offers a glance back in Mishima’s direction. “He’s a pretentious asshole. No reasoning deeper than that.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Mishima says a little dumbly, squirming in Ryuji’s hold. “You said he was riling me up before a bout. Does that mean—”</p>
<p>“Akechi’s team is out ticket for championships,” Akira says, leaning back against the counter. “We beat them, and that title is <em>all</em> ours.”</p>
<p>“T-that can’t be too hard,” Mishima says tensely, glancing between Akira and Ryuji’s face. “R-right?”</p>
<p>“Thing is…” Ryuji hisses. “We’ve kind of… maybe… never beaten them.”</p>
<p>Mishima blinks, throwing a glance at Akira. “You’re joking.”</p>
<p>Akira winces, and glances at the shot glasses like he desperately wants to pour himself one. “If only,” he sighs. “We’re still a relatively new team, considering we formed earlier this year, but… nope. As many times as we’ve played Goro’s team, we’ve never won.”</p>
<p>“The Wildcards are <em>insane</em>,” Ryuji explains, leaning heavier onto Mishima’s shoulder. “With Goro as their jammer though…”</p>
<p>He doesn’t have to finish his sentence for the weight to settle uncomfortable on Mishima’s shoulder. He hears the unspoken, <em>and</em> the spoken, if Akechi’s words are anything to go by. With Goro as their jammer, and down Ann as a blocker, poor chances have turned near impossible weighed down by…some little try-hard.</p>
<p>Which, if Mishima is being honest, feels a little bit like <em>bullshit.</em></p>
<p>When he glances at Akira, he has to fight to keep his voice steady. “You guys have me now though, right?”</p>
<p>Akira’s eyes widen, the grey catching the light for a moment, and then he turns to Ryuji silently. Mishima stiffens, afraid he’s said something wrong, but then Ryuji is pulling him into a crushing side hug, lifting Mishima near off of his feet with a squeeze.</p>
<p>“Hell yeah we do!” Ryuji shouts. Mishima laughs as he’s given a firm noogie, the little bit of alcohol in his veins warming him affectionately. Even if Akira doesn’t go to touch him, Mishima still sees the simmering heat in his eyes, the way he looks at Mishima like a new, shiny treasure.</p>
<p>And Mishima? Mishima wants to kick Goro Akechi’s <em>ass.</em></p>
<p>“Come on!” Ryuji shouts, with a tug back towards the rink. “You ever tried skating hammered?”</p>
<p>“Um,” Mishima says, stumbling forward, “that sounds more than a little dangerous.”</p>
<p>“Oh it is,” Ryuji says with a grin. Mishima meets Akira’s eye over his shoulder and smiles when all he gets is a shrug in return. If beating Goro at championships is all it takes to get Akira to look at him like that again, if his place under Ryuji’s arms is determined by his usefulness, Mishima is about to be the best derby player this rink has ever seen. Ryuji smiles. “That’s the fun part.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Mishima has never been to an honest to god party before. He’s not quite sure if this counts, but it’s probably close enough, considering the amount of half-drunk young adults stumbling around whose names Mishima will never be able to place. He tries to resolve himself to having some fun, even though the memory of Akira and Ryuji in the bathroom is still lingering at the forefront of his mind as he skates.</p>
<p>And when that turns into too much a problem, he resolves to getting drunk off his ass.</p>
<p>Futaba is really good to try to keep up with, until suddenly she is very much <em>not</em>, and Mishima passed drunk a rum and coke and three shots ago, and now he’s barely on standing on his own feet as the shitty speakers blare some indie number. Actually, scratch the standing on his feet thing. He’s leaning on Ann.</p>
<p>People are really friendly when they’ve seen you get beaten to hell on roller skates, and Mishima spends all of the time he’s not drinking with Ann, or Futaba, or Haru, surprisingly, chatting with people who try to commend him on a ‘sick game.’ He doesn’t really have a reference for whether or not it was actually as good as everybody thinks it was, but he’ll take the praise anyway.</p>
<p>And, Ryuji was definitly right. Skating hammered is very dangerous, and very fun.</p>
<p>“Mishima!” Ann shouts, and Mishima glances up from the conversation he was having with the manager for the Attendants—her name is Margaret, and she is so very tall—and he’s actually proud he seemed to be holding his own until he realized he was just kind of nodding along to whatever she said and trying to figure out if she dyed her hair. Because that <em>whole</em> team can’t be naturally blonde, right?</p>
<p>“Sorry, Marg—uh, Margaret,” Mishima says, glancing over his shoulder at where Ann is sitting on the edge of a table and waving her arms. “I got? To go?”</p>
<p>She lets him go with a nod and Mishima stumbles towards the table on his skates, remembering what it felt like the first time he put them on. He’s not sure if it was easier maneuvering then or now, but he sure feels like it’s a goddamn miracle he makes it to the table in one piece.</p>
<p>“Hey, Ann!” Mishima yelps, trying to pretend like he didn’t just go nearly face down into a plastic chair. “Lookin’ good.”</p>
<p>“Thanks,” Ann giggles, glancing around at the rest of the table. Mishima realizes belatedly the rest of the team is gathered around, spread out on or next to the table. “You guys ready to after-after party?” she asks, met with varying cheers and exclamations.</p>
<p>“Hell yeah!” Ryuji shouts, and Mishima feels his eyes zero in on the little bruise low on his neck when it makes itself known. It looks good, dark against his skin, and what Mishima wouldn’t do to fit his mouth over that same mark and <em>suck</em>—</p>
<p>“Van’s open,” Haru announces, shifting slightly from her perch in Yusuke’s lap. Mishima sees Makoto stiffen almost exaggeratedly at his side, before she rolls to her feet. He knows how she feels, if the way his chest tightens when he catches Ryuji and Akira in the same position is any indication. They’re shameless, Akira pressing kisses up Ryuji’s neck with his hand slipped up the side of his shirt, and Ryuji barely seems to be paying him any attention, save for the hand he had resting on Akira’s hip.</p>
<p>Mishima sends Makoto a sympathetic glance. Struggle recognizes struggle.</p>
<p>“Shotgun!” Futaba shouts, sliding out from her spot against the wall. “I wanna play navigator!”</p>
<p>“I know where Ann lives,” Makoto sighs, leaning down to pick her skates up. “I don’t need directions, Futaba.”</p>
<p>“You always take the long waaaay,” Futaba whines, and Mishima laughs when she whips out her phone with a grin. “Bet I can find us a shortcut,” she giggles.</p>
<p>Makoto sighs. “That’s two for me then. Who else is riding along?”</p>
<p>“Me!” Ann calls.</p>
<p>“I’m in your debt,” Yusuke says with a smile.</p>
<p>“Can we stop and get slushies?” Haru asks, sidling up to Makoto and looping their arms together.  “Ann probably doesn’t want us to eat up all of her food, so we can get snacks, too!”</p>
<p>“Do you really want a <em>slushie?</em>” Makoto says. “Haru, it’s beginning of December.”</p>
<p>“I want a slushie!” Futaba yells.</p>
<p>Mishima giggles when Ann looks his way with a wink, before sliding off of the table. He’s about to go follow them, and see if Makoto can cram in one more, when he feels a hand on his arm, and glances over his shoulder to see Ryuji and Akira glancing his way. Well, Ryuji is glancing his way, Akira has his face buried in Ryuji’s hair. “You need a ride to Ann’s?” he asks.</p>
<p>Oh, shit. Uh, Mishima knows he’s supposed to be avoiding them, but his eyes catch on Ryuji’s hickey again and suddenly he can’t remember <em>why</em>. But he sways on his feet, and glances at the rest of the team’s retreating backs. “No, um,” he slurs, trying to get a grip on his tongue so he doesn’t make a fool out of himself, “I can just… uh… walk?”</p>
<p>“Dude, what the hell,” Ryuji says. “I’m not letting you do that. Just ride with me ‘n Akira.”</p>
<p>Mishima squints up at Ryuji and tries to cycle through every excuse he can think of. He manages to land on “Should you be driving right now?”</p>
<p>“I ain’t <em>stupid</em>,” Ryuji sighs. “I don’t drink. Don’t like it. I promise I’m very sober and capable of driving you the, like, ten minutes to Ann’s without crashing.” Akira presses another kiss to the edge of Ryuji’s hair, and slides out from behind him to head towards the door.</p>
<p>“You’re riding with us,” Akira says, like it’s final, and Mishima watches him retreat towards the door with a slack jaw.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Mishima yelps, rocking on his feet. “Okay… Um, yeah, okay,” he repeats, with another glance at Ryuji. He gets a shrug, and an arm wrapped around his neck.</p>
<p>“Papa Sakamoto is on babysitting duty,” he sighs, leading Mishima towards the door.</p>
<p>The air outside has finally slipped towards ‘cold as hell’ as the night has gone on, and Mishima can’t help but shiver when it hits him, trying to worm deeper into the flimsy material of his jersey as Ryuji leads them towards his car. He squints at Ryuji’s car, and then at Akira leaning against the car, because he doesn’t remember him being that <em>tall</em>.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Mishima says, sliding up to him. Akira blinks, and clears some of the fringe out of his face, and Mishima squints harder. “How tall are you?”</p>
<p>“Hundred… something,” Akira mumbles. He gets caught by a gust of wind that makes him shiver, and Mishima takes in the flush on his face and the hazy shine of his eyes with a little stab of heat. “You’re tiny,” Akira says.</p>
<p>“Bet you could pick me up,” Mishima challenges.</p>
<p>“Alright!” Ryuji sighs, stepping between them to heard Mishima towards the backseat. “Nobody is sober enough to be getting picked up right now.”</p>
<p>“You’re sober,” Mishima says, as Ryuji tries to push him into the car. He spins on his heel and glances up at Ryuji’s face. “Bet <em>you</em> could pick me up,” he hums, reaching out to squeeze at one of Ryuji’s shoulders. His skin is soft, and warm, and Mishima gives another little involuntary shiver.</p>
<p>“Do you ever wear enough layers?” Ryuji huffs, and suddenly the world goes dark as fabric gets pulled over his head, warm and kind of sweaty smelling. Mishima really, really thinks he should mind more than he does.</p>
<p>“Is this your jacket?” Mishima asks, bunching up the fabric over his hands. “God,” he buries his face in the edge. “You smell so good.”</p>
<p>Ryuji makes a sound like he’s been kicked, before he’s herding Mishima back into the car with a hand at his shoulder. “We can’t have you getting sick,” Ryuji says tightly, reaching out to flick Mishima on the nose when he spills into the backseat. “Heat’s not as good back here as it is up front anyway. You need it more than I do.”</p>
<p>“Told you Ryuji was a mother hen,” Akira mutters, sliding into the passenger’s seat. “Better get used to it.”</p>
<p>Mishima doesn’t think he’ll <em>ever</em> be used to any part of Ryuji, especially not when he’s buried in soap and sweat and coffee, laying against the soft fabric of Ryuji’s backseat. He’s still got a little bit of a chill, but the shiver that rackets through his body really has nothing to do with the cold.</p>
<p>“Thank you for the ride,” Mishima says, curling up in his seat. He really, really wants to know what Akira smells like right now too. Maybe like the lemon cleaner…</p>
<p>“You know we’re always gonna help,” Ryuji says, and Akira backs him up with a little hum.</p>
<p>When Ryuji flips the radio on, Mishima stares at the roof, reaching up to drag fingers over the material. It’s soft, like Ryuji’s jacket. He wonders if Ryuji’s skin is this soft too. Or maybe Akira’s hair, or maybe—</p>
<p><em>I love you</em>, Ryuji whispers in his head. <em>I love you</em>, Akira says back.</p>
<p>“So,” Ryuji says, and Mishima jumps so hard he nearly slams his head against the back of the seat. “How was your first roller derby game?”</p>
<p>“Really cool,” Mishima coos, sitting up so he can lean between the seats. He really wants to see Ryuji and Akira’s faces. “Is every game like that, or just the first one?”</p>
<p>“Every game, hopefully,” Akira sighs, glancing down at Mishima. Mishima realizes Akira is holding Ryuji’s hand against his face as he drives, nuzzling up against his palm. “The better you get, the more fun it is.”</p>
<p>“I hope I get to stay long enough to find out,” Mishima murmurs, trying to quell down the urge to join Akira in pressing against Ryuji’s hand. <em>That is not your boyfriend</em>, he reminds himself. That will never <em>be</em> your boyfriend. “Um,” he chokes out, suddenly remembering dim lights, and soft sounds, and <em>Ryuji, god, Ryuji— </em>“Do you guys—” <em>always sneak off to the bathroom like that after games, or was today just as exciting for you as it was for me? “</em>Do… um… you guys…”</p>
<p>Akira sends him a questioning look, and Mishima is thankful when his phone vibrates in one of the cupholders, ringing quietly. Mishima thinks Akira is going to drop Ryuji’s hand to reach for it, and he’s so grateful at the reprieve from affection it’s palpable, but Akira just switches hands and keeps up the slow kisses to Ryuji’s hand. “What’s up?” he says, slightly muffled into the phone.</p>
<p>“<em>Akira!</em>” Haru coos. “<em>We’re getting snacks! Any requests?”</em></p>
<p>“Any requests?” Akira asks the car.</p>
<p>“I like popcorn,” Mishima says.</p>
<p>“Those spicy ass chips Akira likes!” Ryuji demands.</p>
<p>“<em>What are those called</em>?” Makoto asks, slightly muffled. “<em>I kind of can’t work with that.</em>”</p>
<p>“The uhhh,” Ryuji drawls. “Um. Babe, what are those called?”</p>
<p>“Gas station by the rink or by Ann’s?” Akira asks.</p>
<p>“<em>The rink,</em>” Makoto says. Distantly, Mishima hears shouting. “<em>Don’t let him buy that!</em>” Makoto snaps.</p>
<p>“Turn,” Akira says, pointing down a street. Ryuji does so without hesitating. “We’re just gonna swing by to help. I know you’re fighting an uphill battle, Makoto.”</p>
<p>Makoto sighs gratefully. “<em>That’s our leader.</em>”</p>
<p>Akira laughs. “See you in a few.”</p>
<p>“Snack run!” Ryuji whoops. Mishima nearly tips over into the seat when Ryuji turns into a too bright parking lot.</p>
<p>“I think,” he mutters. “I am too drunk for a snack run.”</p>
<p>“You’ll be fine,” Akira slurs, clicking out of his seatbelt to slide through the door.</p>
<p>Mishima follows him clumsily, trailing Akira and Ryuji into the gas station with a wince. It’s so light inside, the overheads bouncing against the white floors and walls and shiny packaging, and Mishima’s head give a dull pound as he takes in the rest of the team scattered around the store, holding armfuls of snacks.</p>
<p>“Mishima!” Ann calls, hopping over a shelf with a little wave. “Sweet or sour?”</p>
<p>“Um,” he says, rounding the corner. “Sour?”</p>
<p>“Wrong,” Ann snickers, and Mishima watches her slide a few unfamiliar packages of candy into her basket. “They’re sweet.” She bumps his hip with hers with a smile, and Mishima yelps when she unloads her basket of snacks onto him. “What are you in the mood for?”</p>
<p>Mishima glancing at the shelves full mostly of candy with a wince, reading for anything that sounds particularly interesting. He can feel himself sobering up slightly, which would be fine if it wasn’t leaving him unreasonably hungry. “I kinda want, like… food? Like a meal?”</p>
<p>Ann hums and dumps another package of candy in the basket. Jesus, does she plan on eating all of this by herself? “I’ll order a pizza when we get back to my place. Can you get some drinks? Yusuke is a big baby and won’t drink anything without a chaser.”</p>
<p>Are they planning on doing <em>more</em> drinking? Maybe keeping up with Futaba <em>was</em> a bad idea. He’s going to need his stomach pumped.</p>
<p>“Aye aye,” he mumbles anyway, waddling out of the isle to head towards the refrigerated section of the store. He turns the corner around a shelf and is about to call out to Akira and Yusuke, stood at the slushie machine together, when he stops. They’re standing… very close.</p>
<p>Mishima watches Akira laugh at something Yusuke is saying, and then Yusuke is throwing an arm around Akira’s waist and huffing when Akira’s fingers slide up the back of his shirt.</p>
<p>Huh. Well, that’s… not too weird right? Akira is pretty friendly with everybody, Mishima knows that firsthand, even if Yusuke gives a quick squeeze to his waist and leans down to whisper in Akira’s ear with a slow drag of his palm towards Akira’s spine. He barely catches the way Akira shudders. That’s… probably nothing, right?</p>
<p>It’s definitly not his place to get involved when he can barely walk straight, that’s for sure. Just, keep your eyes down and your brain empty, Mishima. He knows how to do that pretty well at this point.</p>
<p>He is, in fact, doing it so well that he nearly collides with Haru around the corner, and smacks his basket into his knee with a wince.</p>
<p>“Sorry!” he yelps.</p>
<p>“You’re alright!” Haru assures, arms going to Mishima’s shoulders to hold him steady. “Did Ann send you for drinks?”</p>
<p>Mishima nods and glances over his shoulder at the slushie machine, only to see Akira and Yusuke have pulled away from each other for the moment, though now they’ve been joined by Ryuji, who’s arm has taken Yusuke’s place on Akira’s waist.</p>
<p>Not his place, not his place. He can still see the hickey on Ryuji’s neck.</p>
<p>“Um,” he asks Haru. “What kind of soda does Yusuke like?”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Mishima learns, very quickly, that Ann’s house is <em>huge</em>. It’s European styled, in the middle of a neighborhood of equally large and almost eerily similar structures, white columns lit up by exterior lights across the lawn. The inside is no less extravagant, full of big, empty halls and rooms that look like they haven’t seen foot traffic since the day Mishima was born.</p>
<p>It’s almost comical watching a rowdy team of bruised and beaten young adults crowd into her spotless living room and spill over her couches and floor to crack open copious amounts of beer, the expensive vodka Ann pulls from a shelf, and probably the world’s greasiest pizza. Mishima loves it.</p>
<p>“Mishima!” Haru yells, flopping over into his lap on the ground. Ann is playing music from her speakers, and the rest of the thieves are chatting loudly, so Mishima squints and leans down to hear what Haru is saying. “How are you liking derby?” she shouts into his ear.</p>
<p>“It’s fun!” Mishima yells back, wincing when Ryuji’s laugh crackles across the room. “You guys are really nice.”</p>
<p>“Aww!” Haru coos, poking him in the cheek. “You’re so cute! We were really rooting for you y’know?” She giggles. “Some of us more than other.”</p>
<p>“Huh?” Mishima asks nervously.</p>
<p>Haru shushes him with a pat to his cheek, and stumbles drunkenly to her feet. It’s loud enough that Mishima feels like there are twenty people in the house instead of a rough eight, and Mishima clamors to his feet after Haru to trail her into the kitchen.</p>
<p>Ann and Ryuji are fighting over the pizza, and Akira is sitting on the counter, nursing one of his black eyes with a bag of frozen peas. Mishima hadn’t even noticed it before, but now he can see the edge of a purple bruise as Akira kicks his feet and sips miserably at his beer.</p>
<p>“How’s your eye?” Mishima asks, sliding up to his side.</p>
<p>Akira throws him a glance that Mishima fears will fade back into the gentle detachment he’s been prone to lately, something impassive and cold that makes Mishima’s chest squeeze. Now, though, maybe because of the alcohol, it just stays simmering and fond, as he taps his feet against Ann’s cabinets. “Better,” he says, leaning back onto his hand with a sigh. “Fucked up my chances of winning the ‘prettiest jammer’ pageant I was gonna enter, but hey. That’s a b-side.”</p>
<p>Mishima snorts into his cup and leans his elbows onto the counter. “You still look great,” he says, and then, mumbled into his drink, “Of course you’d even look sexy with a black eye.”</p>
<p>Akira lifts an eyebrow and Mishima actually shoves his whole mouth past the lid of his drink with a yelp. Maybe he is still a little too drunk.</p>
<p>Akira laughs quietly, and Mishima flushes with shame, watching him slide off of the counter to rest a hand on the side of Mishima’s face. “You’ve got a matching one,” he murmurs, and Mishima flinches when Akira’s thumb presses into his skin. It makes the bruise light up in pain, and Mishima shivers as his eyes flutter closed. “We look like a couple of delinquents.”</p>
<p>“Ah, I dunno,” Mishima admits quietly, opening an eye just so he can see Akira’s face. “I think I probably just look like a jackass.”</p>
<p>Akira frowns. “Mishima—”</p>
<p>There’s a crash a room over, and the sound of Futaba squealing, and Mishima and Akira lock eyes before they’re moving towards the living room again.</p>
<p>“Futaba?” Mishima calls, freezing when Futaba’s blurry figure parts for brown, and red, and—<em>shit</em>.</p>
<p>“I was wondering when you were gonna show up!” Futaba shouts, and Mishima blanches as he realizes the person she’s climbing is Akechi, his face impassive as Futaba wraps arms around his neck.</p>
<p>“Ann wouldn’t stop bothering me,” he says, with a grunt, reaching up to fist his hand in the back of Futaba’s shirt. “Will you get off of me?”</p>
<p>“No!” Futaba shouts, curling tighter. “Half-sister rights! I get to climb you to feel taller!”</p>
<p>“<em>Futaba</em>,” Akechi growls, and Mishima glances at his side to see Akira grinning wickedly.</p>
<p>“Look what the cat dragged in!” he calls over his shoulder, and Mishima jostles as the thieves rush past him, all clamoring to get their turn on what looks like the “bully goro” train.</p>
<p>“Um!” Mishima says, catching Makoto’s arm as she tries to walk calmly past. “Isn’t Akechi supposed to be part of your rival team? Why does everybody seem so… happy to see him?”</p>
<p>Makoto mumbles something under her breath, and then crosses her arms. “Akechi <em>is</em> part of our rival team, but he’s also… something of a friend.” She sighs. “It’s complicated. He and Futaba are also <em>technically</em> related, so he has a tendency to get dragged along to team functions.”</p>
<p>Great, Mishima thinks, turning back to the thieves all shouting greetings and reaching out to ruffle Akechi’s hair. Now he’s not just fighting for a way to beat Akechi, he’s got to win him out for attention, too. Perfect. Mishima’s night only seems to be getting better.</p>
<p>Makoto claps her hands together and takes a few steps forward. “Quit crowding Akechi, guys. I’m sure he’ll appreciate some space.”</p>
<p>The crowd parts gently, and Akechi catches Mishima’s eye with a slight sneer, before he turns to Akira at his side. “Get me a drink,” he demands, and sets off towards Ann’s kitchen. Every eye follows him in the room like he’s shining. “And play something that sounds less like I’m at a goddamn middle school dance!”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“Go fish,” Ann says, upside down on her couch.</p>
<p>Yusuke frowns. “I thought we were playing blackjack.”</p>
<p>“Haru said we were playing spades,” Mishima says, frowning down at the cards on the table.</p>
<p>Haru giggles. “I was lying.”</p>
<p>“Jesus christ,” Makoto mumbles, and sets her cards down on the table. “What time is it?”</p>
<p>“Late,” Akira remarks from Ann’s side, legs propped up in Ryuji’s lap. “Do you guys wanna watch a movie?”</p>
<p>“That’s our ‘too tired to function activity!’ Futaba protests. “I’ve still got plenty of energy!”</p>
<p>Mishima yawns. “Speak for yourself. I’m starting to feel the bruises on my bruises.” There are noises of agreement, shuffling around. Haru puts her head on Makoto’s shoulder and pouts when Makoto slips away gently.</p>
<p>Mishima actually <em>would</em> like to know what time it is, considering he’s starting to feel like one good lay down will have him conked out for the rest of the night. Ann has switched to one of Goro’s playlists—at his insistence—but the music is slower now, less energetic than it had been a few hours prior. Yusuke yawns, and then Mishima yawns, and then Ryuji yawns, and suddenly, the whole team looks like they’re ready for one big nap.</p>
<p>“I’m going to get another beer,” Goro sighs, rolling onto his feet. Mishima leans into the side of the couch with a sigh, noticing kind of belatedly that Ryuji stands up and goes after him, even though Mishima can see his water bottle is still full where it’s sitting on the table.</p>
<p>Mishima kind of wants some more water, too. He also wants to sleep until he forgets what it’s like for his <em>bones</em> to ache, but one thing at a time. He can’t be the loser that falls asleep first. “I’m—gonna go get some more water…” Mishima says on a yawn, stomach sloshing as he stands up, and <em>woah</em>, he is still a bit tipsier than he thought he was. He nearly tips over into the couch, and by extension, Akira’s lap, catching himself on the arm rest before he goes down. “Sorry,” he says, glancing up at Akira’s face.</p>
<p>He’s really flushed from the alcohol, eyes wide on Mishima’s face. And… very close, Mishima notices. He could probably brush their noses together. How has he never noticed how pretty Akira’s eyes are? They’re like… comets.</p>
<p>“Mishima?” Akira says, and Mishima snaps back to himself, pushing into a shaky stand.</p>
<p>“Yeah!” he squeaks. “Sorry, uh, um… water… water!” He climbs to his feet and circles the couch, a hand going to his cheek as his face heats up. God, what’s <em>wrong</em> with him? He may be drunk, but Akira still has Ryuji, who’s sweet, and handsome and—</p>
<p>Mishima freezes. Kissing Akechi against the counter of Ann’s kitchen.</p>
<p>Mishima has never had his heart stop before—not consciously at least—but it’s a close thing when he catches what can’t be anything <em>other</em> than <em>Akira’s boyfriend</em>, a hand slid under Akechi’s thigh, holding him against the counter, pressed so tight up against Akechi’s body that if Mishima squinted it would be too hard to tell who’s who.</p>
<p>If Mishima was a little more sober, he’d probably be a little humored by the fact that he apparently just <em>can’t</em> stop walking in on people making out tonight. As is, he feels more like he’s going to have a panic attack.</p>
<p>Akechi’s eyelashes flutter, and his weight shifts as Ryuji pulls him closer, his thighs pressing in closer at Ryuji’s hips.</p>
<p>Mishima… Mishima should go. He should get out of the kitchen now, because he’s suddenly equal parts too drunk and not drunk enough and the kitchen is the <em>last</em> place he needs to be, and the nail in the coffin is Akechi’s eyes sliding open and meeting Mishima’s, red and sharp as his gaze narrows and hardens.</p>
<p>Mishima takes one shaky step back, and then another, and when Akechi leans down and kisses the side of Ryuji’s neck with a smirk, he spins on his heel and <em>bolts</em>.</p>
<p>Yusuke is waiting on the other side of the wall with two plastic cups pinched between his fingers, a frown on his face. Mishima gasps out an apology as his brain reels, and… fuck. <em>Fuck!</em></p>
<p>Okay, maybe that <em>wasn’t </em>Ryuji. Mishima may <em>feel</em> sober, but that doesn’t <em>mean </em>he is, because there are lots of people on this team, and Ryuji can’t be the only one with fluffy bleach blond hair, and really nice back muscles, and bright yellow nails, and a tiny smattering of freckles on the edges of his shoulders…</p>
<p>“Mishima?” Yusuke asks, again. Right, Yusuke. “Are you all right?”</p>
<p>“Yes!” Mishima squeaks, and then realizes he’s probably loud enough that he’s alerted Ryuji and Akechi to his presence, and <em>shit</em>, does that mean Akechi has told Ryuji that he saw them? Is Ryuji going to come out and tell him not to tell Akira. And shit, shit, <em>shit.</em></p>
<p><em>Is</em> he going to tell Akira?</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” he breathes, patting hands at Yusuke’s chest to try and steady himself. “I’m…”</p>
<p>Is this something he’s supposed to get involved in? Is this the first time Ryuji has done this? He was so friendly with Akechi before and, <em>god,</em> doesn’t that make a sick amount of sense now?</p>
<p>If Akira and Ryuji break up, what happens to the team? What happens to <em>Akira?</em></p>
<p>“I thought you were getting water?” Yusuke asks, and Mishima makes a choked noise as he pushes Yusuke back to the living room.</p>
<p>“I lied! I mean, um, there is actually no more water. Haha! Who would have thought, right? Let’s go sit down, are they still playing blackjack or poker or whatever—”</p>
<p>Mishima is on the verge of a heart attack, and he’s more thankful than he can really say when Yusuke lets himself be led back to the group, falling back into the nice, jovial attitude. Everyone is still laughing, and Futaba looks like she’s setting up karaoke, like none of them even realized their jammer is getting cheated on in the kitchen. Akira himself is leaning his arms on Futaba’s head as she fiddles with the wires to Ann’s flatscreen, and Mishima still can’t tell what card game they’re playing because all he can see is Goro’s eyes and Ryuji’s hands dug into his thighs, and for fucks sake what he wouldn’t give to have Ryuji’s hands dug into <em>his</em> skin like that—</p>
<p><em>Focus</em>, Mishima!</p>
<p>He climbs onto the couch and curls his legs under himself, avoiding the look Akira throws his way over his shoulder.</p>
<p>He remembers when Kazuko started dating, Mayumi gave every one of their sister’s partners shovel talks. He can still hear the jarring smile in her voice as she informed every person that came through, <em>You hurt my little sister, and I’ll bury you so deep in the ground they’ll never find you again</em>. Mishima loves his siblings, but they don’t really have the same kind of tight knit life or death bond the thieves have going on, and if <em>they</em> figure out Ryuji is <em>cheating</em>—</p>
<p>“Mishima?” Ann asks, glancing back at him. “We’re switching to poker. Want in?”</p>
<p>Mishima shakes his head. He <em>wants</em> to go home, or maybe he wants to just… forget about this team as a whole. He feels upset and kind of sick and strangely, he realizes, hurt? But it’s not like <em>he</em> was the one getting cheated on. <em>Akira, </em>he thinks. What is this going to do to Akira?</p>
<p>Maybe he can just wait for Ryuji and Akechi to come back. Someone will notice they’re gone after long enough, right? Especially since Ryuji and Akira are usually so attached at the hip. All he has to do is wait for them to come back, and maybe he can pull Ryuji aside to talk, and maybe this is all some big misunderstanding. Yeah. Yeah.</p>
<p>They play through three rounds of poker, and Mishima does not hear or see Ryuji once. He’s starting to nod off on the sofa when Ann stands up with a yawn. “Alright,” she announces, “Movie time.”</p>
<p>“Thank goodness,” Yusuke sighs, setting his cards down on the table.</p>
<p>Mishima lifts his chin from his hand and glances around, only to notice one other person is now suspiciously missing. “Where’s Akira?” he asks sleepily. He was on the other side of the couch, but that spot is now occupied by Makoto, curled in on herself and fast asleep.</p>
<p>“Balcony?” Haru suggests, rocking onto her feet. “What movie do you guys want to watch? Or, uh, sleep to.”</p>
<p>“Where’s your balcony?” Mishima asks Ann.</p>
<p>She points him though the doors of her dining room, just past one of the gleaming chandeliers. “He likes to hang out on the left,” she says around a yawn. “Somebody find the remote.”</p>
<p>Mishima vacates the room as a gentle argument picks up over a movie he knows no one is going to watch, the shining glass of the door throwing his reflection back at him from the lights. This really isn’t his buisness, and he should <em>really</em> stay out of it. At least he can go… be there, for Akira. Let him know he has something to fall back on.</p>
<p>His reflection winces. This is going to hurt like hell.</p>
<p>Akira is stood off to the left of the balcony as promised, leaning over the railing and staring out at the glittering pool below. Mishima shuts the door as quietly as he can, though he knows Akira can tell he’s out here, based on the little incline of his head in Mishima’s direction.</p>
<p>“Hi,” Mishima says, breath fogging into the air.</p>
<p>“Hi,” Akira parrots back, not taking his eyes off of the water.</p>
<p>“Um,” Mishima starts, shuffling forward slightly. “Aren’t you cold out here?” he asks. He doesn’t go too far past the doors, just enough to dip away from the too bright lights for the dark of the sky. Akira’s hair is wild onyx against the stars, his fingers pale against the ruby of his mouth.</p>
<p>“Not really,” Akira says, turning to glance Mishima’s way. “Plus, Ann doesn’t like it when I smoke inside.” He snorts. “Or at all, really.”</p>
<p>“You smoke?” Mishima asks. Akira turns around again with a smile, and Mishima spots the cigarette pinched between his fingers, the white paper stark against his black nails.</p>
<p>“Not often,” he says.</p>
<p>“O-oh,” Mishima breathes, and the silence gets a little tense, a little suffocating. Someone inside starts singing along to music. Maybe this was a mistake after all. “I s-should probably go back inside—”</p>
<p>“Why?” Akira asks, rolling so his back is against the balcony railing. His eyes dart inside, like he’s looking for something, before they fall back on Mishima. “Stay.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure?” Mishima asks, ducking his head. “I don’t want to bother you.”</p>
<p>“You don’t… bother me,” Akira says slowly, like he’s picking his words very carefully. He sends Mishima a small smile. “Promise. Stay?” It’s a question this time, less forceful. It gives Mishima an out, the chance to duck back inside where things are safe, and in crowds, and where Akira’s eyes aren’t all too clear even in the dark.</p>
<p>“Okay,” he says, instead of the coward’s way out. Akira doesn’t look at him as he shuffles up to the railing. He does slide the cigarette between his lips and tuck away a lighter—bright red, inscribed with the same hat and mask that stands out on their uniforms, and it makes Mishima snort. He’s really all or nothing, huh?</p>
<p>Akira raises an eyebrow but drops it when Mishima shakes his head, leaning onto the railing, wishing he still had on Ryuji’s jacket to protect his arms from the cold metal.</p>
<p>“Y’know,” Mishima starts, lacing his hands together and glancing down at his fingers. “I’m really glad we’re… um… around each other,” he says. “I know you’ve got it rough with all the team and everything, so I’m glad you can still make time to help me out, a-and everything.”</p>
<p>“Of course,” Akira says, a little hollowly. There’s an exhale from his side, a little flick of Akira’s wrist as he taps away the ash on his cigarette. “That’s what a good team is for right?”</p>
<p>Mishima swallows the lump in his throat and nods. <em>Be there for him</em>, his brain says. <em>Be a good friend.</em> “I’m glad we met,” he blurts, wincing when Akira glances his way. “I know I’m annoying, and you’ve probably had to give up so much of your free time to help me, but I’m really grateful. I know you probably don’t like me all that much, but—”</p>
<p>“What?” Akira says. He turns on his side again. “Where did… I mean… I don’t…” he cuts himself off with a frustrated huff. “I like you,” he admits, with a frown at Mishima’s disbelief. “I do. I don’t want you to think I don’t—” he stops again, fingers twitching at his cigarette uncertainly.</p>
<p>“You don’t have to—”</p>
<p>“It’s hard,” Akira says, glancing back at the water. “Being what everyone needs for the team. I love it, and I love… you guys, but that doesn’t make things easier.” He presses his hand to his face. “You were something of an unexpected variable. I still don’t know what I’m doing.”</p>
<p>“Akira,” Mishima says, turning to look at Akira sideways. “You don’t have to.”</p>
<p>Akira sighs, and Mishima takes a chance, sliding close enough their arms can touch. He doesn’t want Akira to feel alone.</p>
<p>“I like you,” Akira says again, out to the water. “I wouldn’t lie about that.”</p>
<p>Mishima puts a hand on his arm. “I’m probably going to make a ton of mistakes, and I will definitely piss you off, but I’m… here for you. Like the rest of the team.”</p>
<p>“I know that,” Akira says gently, and Mishima stops, breath catching in his throat as Akira leans closer, and finally turns to <em>look</em> at him. “Even if we’d lost tonight, you’re still—” he stumbles a bit, eyes jumping down to Mishima’s mouth. “You were good for us. Just yourself.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Mishima says breathlessly, meeting Akira’s eyes when he looks up again. It’s nearly the same look Ryuji gave him earlier, the one over Goro’s shoulder, and he’s thankful a breeze sweeps cold air in, because that’s a better explanation for the way he shivers suddenly. Mishima pulls away guiltily.</p>
<p>“Can I… tell you something?” he asks quietly. He owes this to Akira.</p>
<p>“Go for it,” Akira says, whispers, his body still too close. Mishima can feel the heat radiating off of him in waves, and it’s taking his breath away.</p>
<p>Mishima owes this to him, he <em>knows</em> that. If he cares about his friends’ relationship, about Akira’s happiness… He leans away with a sigh. “Ryuji,” he whispers. “Um… and Goro. I think…” His face is flaming, and he can’t keep from glancing at Akira again in the moonlight, the furrow to his brow and the tight line of his mouth. Mishima aches when he drops his head forward with a sigh.</p>
<p>“Ann is going to kill them,” he groans. “She hates it when they fuck at her house.”</p>
<p>What. <em>What?</em></p>
<p>“What?” Mishima yelps, leaning back.</p>
<p>Akira shoots him a look, head tipping to the side. “That’s all you were telling me, right? You caught Ryuji and Goro making out or something?” He shrugs. “They do that.”</p>
<p>“B-but,” Mishima starts, and then stops at the small smile Akira is giving him. “That’s your boyfriend!”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Akira says on a shrug. “Sometimes we sleep with other people.” He laughs at whatever face Mishima is making, leaning back against the railing again. “It’s cool. We’ve talked about it.”</p>
<p>Sometimes when Mishima falls, he <em>knows</em> it’s going to happen a second before he loses his balance. When he’s on his skates, one wrong twist, or an incorrect shift of his weight will send him careening into the floor. It somehow hurts more on the way down than it does sprawled out on his ass, and that’s nothing next to the way his stomach drops when he <em>knows</em> there’s no avoiding a collision. Mishima catches Akira’s eye with his mouth so wide he could catch flies, and feels inexplicably like he’s headed straight for the floor.</p>
<p>Akira smiles. “Sweet that you tried to protect me, though.”</p>
<p>Mishima is going to die. He is so embarrassed that he’s going to melt through the Ann’s balcony towards the core of the earth, and even then he won’t be spared from the way his face flushes hot. “H-how… you just. What do you mean you’ve <em>talked</em> about it?”</p>
<p>“Mishima,” Akira laughs. “Ryuji and I have been dating long enough that we’re pretty sure we know what we want. For me, that’s always Ryuji, and for Ryuji, that’s always me, and sometimes, for both of us, it’s other people. I don’t really mind if he fools around with Goro or something—I do the same thing.” He lifts his cigarette to his mouth with a short laugh. “Today isn’t the first time, and it probably won’t be the last either.”</p>
<p>“T-then, earlier, with Yusuke—” Mishima starts, and then slaps his hand over his mouth.</p>
<p>Akira raises his eyebrows. “Sometimes,” he offers. “I used to run with Haru too till, uh,” he glances off. “Well, that’s her buisness.”</p>
<p>“So, you guys are really just… fine with that?” Mishima gasps, leaning in closer. He feels like his chest is sprinting a million miles in his chest. “You can just… fool around behind each other’s backs?”</p>
<p>Another shrug. “He would have told me about it later. We stay informed.” Mishima yelps when there’s a hand on his chin, tilting his face up as Akira’s jaw catches the light. “Why? You interested or something?”</p>
<p>Akira’s fingertips are cold from the weather, and Mishima can feel how wide his gaze is, but he stumbles closer when Akira pulls, willing his eyes not to go anywhere but the curl of Akira’s eyelashes. He wants to say <em>No! Of course not!</em> but Akira has him stuck, pinned, with the weight of the gaze on his face and his hand on his jaw, and it’s all he can do to whisper, “<em>Akira.</em>”</p>
<p>“I’m messing with you,” Akira says lowly, voice a little raspy from the cigarette smoke. He certainly doesn’t <em>look</em> like he’s joking, with the hazy intense look in his eye, and Mishima bites his tongue hard when Akira’s thumb comes up, swiping over his bottom lip and the barely healing split slicing through the skin. “You smoke?” he asks, eyes never leaving Mishima’s mouth. Mishima shakes his head so imperceptibly he’s not even sure Akira has caught it, but his thumb moves again, another slow drag that parts Mishima’s lip from his teeth. “You want to?”</p>
<p>“Akira,” Mishima says again, quieter, shivering when Akira leans away to take another drag of his cigarette, the end flashing cherry red, eyes falling shut as he breathes in. Mishima yelps when Akira’s hand goes back to his face, along his jaw, lids low. “What—” he tries to say, stopping when he feels, just barely, Akira’s lips brushing his, not quite enough pressure to be a kiss, half ticklish. He opens his mouth to say something else, when Akira breaths smoke into his mouth, sharp and acrid and easily wiping every single thought from its carefully placed spot in his head. Akira is so close Mishima can still smell sweat and carpet cleaner on him above the cigarette smoke. Akira is so close his lips feel like static.</p>
<p>Mishima’s hands shoot up, fisting in the front of Akira’s shirt to curl too tight in the fabric. He can’t… he can’t call it a kiss, he <em>knows</em> he can’t call it a kiss, but smoke is filling Mishima’s lungs and Akira isn’t moving to step away, and Mishima still feels like the floor is going to swallow him whole when Akira’s hand slides down his jaw to tilt his face closer.</p>
<p>When Akira smiles, Mishima shivers, and Akira only pulls away far enough for Mishima to know he could close that last little gap with ease. Akira is the star that might just swallow him whole.</p>
<p>“Akira!” Someone inside shouts, a voice that sounds like Futaba. “<em>Akira!</em>”</p>
<p>“Sorry,” Akira says against his mouth, and Mishima realizes he’s still holding his shirt, stepping back with a startled little gasp and shaking hands. “See you inside?” he offers, and Mishima just nods again, feeling stupid and dizzy as he watches Akira walk back towards the dining room as the sound inside crescendos and falls with the thud of the door settling back into place.</p>
<p>Mishima thinks he just held a miracle in his hands. His mouth still tastes like cigarette smoke.</p>
<p>He wraps his arm around his face again and screams<em>.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Another chapter down! I'm probably gonna slow down with updates just because the rest of the chapters are... much rougher than the original few had been when I started posting, so be patient with your poor local writer.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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